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?-'■.H^d:!7Y OF PiTTSS^JT 






By PermisilcTi of the Managers. 

•^ The Lines aistiiiguished by inverted Comings are omitted in the Represfntation*'' 


Printed for the Proprietors, under the DzreSIion cf 

John Bell, Bpttc!? iLifrrarg, Sj rand, 

]3ooksclIcr to His Royi! Hi?hn»<;<; the Princr of Wales. 

M D c c >; c I . 


Ihis gentleman offers to us a view, over which 
the lover of man will weep with sincere commi- 
seration. — A view of splendid talents and gentle- 
manly manners, labouring with disorder and 
distress through hfe, though happily not labouring 
long— for perhaps mental misery hastened his 
death before he could complete his 30th year. 

There are beginning traits of charaaer which 
anticipate the course of life, and from such a 
commencement as profaneness, little short of 
profligacy could be expeded to follow. For im- 
piety he was expelled the college of Dublin, 
tanquam pestilentia hujus socletatls. His resource 
upon this circumstance Was to seek the recept cle 
of the greater part of our Indiscreet youth j and 
he accordingly attempted the profession of aa 
aaor.— He was never, it is said, free from that 
timidity which so destroys all effort, and the stage 
would perhaps never have seen him excellent— but 
an accident drove him from the profession soon— 


As he was personating Guyomar in Dr yd en's 
Indian Emperor, he had to kill Vasque%y one of 
the Spanish generals, an ad which he had very 
nearly performed — for taking by mistake a sword 
up instead of a foil, he wounded his brother tra« 

gedian very dangerously. This circumstance 

upon Mr. Farquhar operated so strongly that 
he left the stage as an aftor. 

He was fortunate enough then to secure the 
patronage of the Earl of Orrery, and that 
nobleman gave him a lieutenant^s commission In 
his own regiment, then in Ireland. — It was at 
his solicitation also Mr. Farquhar began to 
write those Commedles, which have established for 
him a reputation not likely to perish. 

What remains it Is painful to tell : — He im- 
prudently married— had children too many for 
his means to maintain — he died in indigence, and 
left them to the charitable attention of a friend.— 
That friend was Wilks the comedian; and to 
his honour be it mentioned, what was then en- 
joined by a dying friend he puntflually performed, 
*— Farquhar did in 1 707. 


The follo^ving is a 

list of 

his Comedies ; 

1699 Stage Coach -— 

1700 Recruiting Officer 

1701 Tiuin Ri-vaLs -— 
170Z Beaux Stratagem 

Love in a Bottle - 
Constant Couple — 
Sir Harry IVildair 
Inconstant -^ — 




This Comedy is every way, but morally y perfe6l.— - 
Virtue can derive little aid or encouragement from 
the scenes of FARquHAR. They, however, who pos- 
sess sufficient discrimination to separate what is good 
from the licentious impress of Farquhar's seal may 
sec his Plays with advantage. 

The Comedy before us is a pleasing, yarloirs as- 
semblage of chara6lers truly comic, and situations 
irresistibly diverting. — When it is considered relative 
to its wit, humour, and the correft knowledge of 
life displayed throughout, the Reader shall be told 
that it was written in six weeks, amid the inconve- 
niencies of poverty, and during that illness which 
brought its author to his grave. 


When strife disturbs t or sloth corrupts an age^ 

Keen satire is the business of the stage. 

IVhen the Plain Dealer ivrit, he lashed those crime.' 

IVhlch then Infested 7nost the modish times. 

But noiAJ nvhenfaSilon sleeps^ and sloth Isjled, 
And all our youth in aSll-vefelds are bredy 
When thro"" Great Britain'' s fair extensive round, 
The trumps of Fame the notes of Union sound j 
When Anna's sceptre points the lanjjs their course ^ 
And her exam.ple gives her precepts force \ 
There scarce is room for satire j all our lays 
Must be^ or songs of triumph , or of praise. 
But as In grounds best cidtlvatedy tares 
And popples rise among the golden ears j 
Our product sOy ft for the field or school t 

Must mix <wlth Nature'' s fa'vourlte plant a foot ^ 

A njjeed that has to tnx'enty summers ran. 
Shoots up In stalky a?id vegetates to man. 
SimpUng our author goes from field to field. 
And culls such fools as may diversion yield. 
Andy thcuiks to nature, there" s no vjant of those y 
For rain or shine the thriving coxcomb grovjs. 
Follies to-night vje shew ri'er lashed before y 
Yet such as nature shevjsyou ev^ry hour ; 
Nor can the pidure give a just offence. 
For fools are made for jests to men of sense. 

iDi:amati0 Ipersonae* 



Ai M w E L I, , ? Two Gentlemen of Broken $ Mr. Barrymorei 

Archer, \ Fortunes ^ Mr. Wroughton. 

Sullen, a Country Blockhead - . ~ Mr. Phiilimore* 

Sir C. Freem.^n, a Gentleman from 

London _ _ _ - - Mr. Haymes. 

FoiGARD, a French Priest^ - - Mr. Moody. 

G I BEET, a Highivayman - - Mr. Suet. 

HouNSLow, P Tj- r^ ^ • - » - Mr. Alfred. 
Tj ^ > His Companions »* -ix/^lu 

Bagshot, S ^ _ _ _ Mr. Webb. 

Boniface, Landlord of the Inn - - Mr. Aickin, 

Scrub, Servant to Mr. Sullen - - Mr. Dodd. 

Lady Bountiful, an old cii/il Country 

Gentlexuoman, that ewes all Distempers - Mrs. Hopkin?. 
DoRiNDA, Lady '&o\irii\i\iVs Daughter - Mrs. Kemble. 
Mrs. Sullen, her Daughter'-in^luw - Miss Henrey, 

Gipsey - - - - *• - Miss Tidswell 

Cherry - - - - ^ Miss Wiliianis 


A I M w E L l , ? Tluo Gentlemen of broken ^ Mr. Farren* 
Archer, \ Fortunes ^ Mr. Lewis* 

Sullen, ti Country Blockhead - - Mr. Davies. 

Sir C. Freeman, a Ge-ntleman from 

London _ - - - 

F o I G A R D , a French Priest 
Gibbet, a Highivayman 


indlord of the Inn 
Scrub, Servant to Mr. Sulieu 

Vj I B B E T , a rugDivo. 

B.\gshot, S 
Boniface, Landlo 

Lady Bountiful, a7i old civil Country 

Ge7itlc%vomany that cures all distetnpers 
DoRiNDA, Lady Bounlitul's Daughier 
Mrs. Sullen, hur- Duughter-in-laio 


CilERRY - - 

Scene, Litchfield. 

- Mr. 


- Mr. 


- Mr. 


- Mr. 


- Mr. 


- Mr. 


- Mr. 


, JVomen. 

- Mrs 

;. Piatt. 

* Mrs 

. Mountain. 

- Mrs 

. Pope. 

- Mis 

s Steward. 

- Mr. 

i. Martyr. 



An Inn. Enter Boniface running, 

^Bar-bell rings, 


Chamberlain, maid. Cherry, daughter Cherry! 
All asleep, all dead ? 

Enter Cherry, running. 

Cher. Here, here. Why, d'ye bawl so, father? 
D'y^ think we have no ears ? v 

Bon. You deserve to have none, you young minx 
—the company of the Warrington coach has stood in 
the hall this hour, and nobody to shew them to their 

Cher. And let 'em wait, father; there's neither red- 
coat in the coach, nor footman behind it. 

Bon. But they threaten to go to another inn to- 


Cher, That they dare not, for fear the coachman 
shou'd overturn them to-morrow \Kinging,'\ Coming, 
coming : here's the London coach arrived. 

Enter se^ueral people ivith trunks, band- boxes, ivith ether 
luggage, and cross the stage. 
Bon. Welcome, ladies. 

Cher. Very welcome, gentlemen. Chamberlain, 

shew the Lion an4the Rose- 

\^Exit ivith the Company. 

Enter Aimwell in a riding habit, Archer as foot- 
man, carryinga portmanteau* 

Bon. This way, this way, gentlemen. 

Aim. Set down the things j go to the stable, and 
see my horse well rubbed. ai 

Arch. I shall, sir. 

Aim. You're my landlord, I suppose ? 

Bon. Yes, sir, I'm old Will Boniface, pretty well 
known upon this road, as the saying is. 

Aim. O, Mr. Boniface, your servant. 

Bon. O, Sir What will your honour please to 

drink, as the saying is ? 

Aim. I have heard your town of Litchfield much 
fam'd for ale : I think I'll taste that. 

Bon. Sir, I have now in my cellar ten tun of the 
best ale iti Staffordshire} 'tis smooth as oil, sweet as 
milk, clear as amber, and strong as brandy, and will 
be just fourteen years old the fifth day of March next* 
old style. 


Aim. You're very exaft, I find, in the age of your 

Bon. As pun6hial, sir, as I am in the age of my 

children: lil shew j^ou such ale. Here, tapster, 

broach number 1706, as the saying is. Sir, you 

shall taste ray anno domini 1 have liv^d in Litch, 

field, man and boy, above eight-and-lifty years, and, 
I believe, have not consumed eight-and -fifty ounces 
oF meat. 

Aim. At a meal, you mean, if one may guess your 
sense by your bulk. 

Bon. Not in my life, sir : I have fed purely upon 
ale ; I have eat my ale, drank my ale,, and I always 
sleep upon ale. 

Enter Tapster nvith a tankard. 
Now, sir, you shall see \^fillmg it out.'] Your wor- 
ship's health : Ha! delicious, delicious fancy it 

Burgundy, only fancy it, and 'tis worth ten shillings 
2 quart. 

Aim. [drinks.'] 'Tis confounded strong. 

Bon. Strong! It must be so, or how wou'd we be 
strong that drink it ? 

Aim. And have yoii lived so long upon this ale, 
landlord ? 

Bon. Elght-and-fifty years, upon my credit, sir i 
but it kiird my wife, poor woman ? as the saying is. 

Aim. How came that to pass ? 

Bon. I don't know how, sir ; she would not let the 
ale take its natural course, sir j she v/as for qualify- 


ing it every now and then with a dram, as the saying 
is ; and an honest gentleman that came this way fron^ 
Ireland, made her a present of a dozen bottles of us- 
quebaugh but the poor woman was never well 

after j but, however, I was obliged to the gentleman, 
yoa know. 

Aim. Why, was it the usquebaugh that killed her ? 

Bon. My lady Bountiful said so she, gocd lady, 

did what could be done j she cur'd her of three tym- 
panies, but the fourth carried her off j but she's happy, 
and I am contented, as the saying is. 

Aim. Who's that lady Bountiful, you mentioned ? 

B^n. Odds my life, sir, we'll drink her health, 
Idrhiks.'] My lady Bountiful is one of the best of wo- 
men : her last husband. Sir Charles Bountiful, left her 
worth a thousand pounds a year ; and I believe, she 
lays out one half on't in charitable uses for the good 
of her neighbdurs ; she cures rheumatisms, ruptures, 
and broken shins in men : " greensickness, obstruc- 
** tions, and fits of the mother in women ;" the king's 
evil, chin-cough, and chilblains in children: in short, 
^he has cured more people in and about Litchfield 
within ten years, than the doftors haye kill'd in 
twenty, and that's a bold word. 

Aim. Has the lady been any other way uceful in 
her generation ? 

Bon. Yes, sir, she has a daughter, by Sir Charles, 
the finest woman in all our country, and the greatest 
fortune ; she has a son, too, by her first hu-band, 
'squire SuUen» who married a fine lady from Loader^ 


t'other day ; if you please, sir, well drink his health. 

Aim. What sort of a man is he ? 

Bon. Why, sir, the man's well enough ; says little, 
thinks less, and does — nothing at all, faith j but he's 
a man of great estate, and values nobody. 

Aim. A sportsman, I suppose ? 

Bon. Yes, sir, he's a man of pleasure : he plays at 
whist, and smoaks his pipe eight-and-forty hours 
together sometimes. 

Aim. A fine sportsman, truly ! and married you say? 

Bon. Ay, and to a curious woman, sir .—-But he's 
a— He wants it here, sir. [Pointing to hisforekead. 

Aim. He has it there, you mean. 

Bon. That's none of my business, he's my land- 
lord, and so a man, you knqw, would not But 

I cod, he's no better than sir, my humble service 

to you. [Drinks. 1 Tho' I value not a farthing what 
he can do to me ; I pay him his rent at quarter-dayj 
I have a good running trade; 1 have but one daughter, 
and I can give her — But no matter for that. 

Aim. You're very happy, Mr. Boniface ; pray^ 
Tvhat other company have you in tov/n ? 

Ban. A power of fine ladies ; and then we have 
the French officers. 

Aim. O that's right, you have a good many of those 
gentlemen : pray, how do you like their company ? 

Bon. So well, as the saying is, that I could wish 
we had as many more of 'om : they're full of moneyi 
and pay double for every thing they have; they 
know, sir, that we paid good round t^xes for the 


taking of them, and so they are willing to reimburse 
us a little : one of 'em lodges in my house. 

Enter Archer. 

Arch. Landlord, there are some French gentlemen 
below that ask for you. 

Bon. ril wait on 'em Does your master stay 

long in town, as the saying is ? [Tb Archer. 

Arch. I can't tell, as the faying is. 

Bon. Come from London ? 

Arch. No. 

Bon. Going to London, mayhap. 

Arch. No. 

Bon. An odd fellow this ! [Bar-bell rings.'] I be^ 
your worship's pardon, I'll wait on you in half a 
minute. [Exit. 

Aim. The course is clear, I see Now, my dea^ 

Archer, welcome to Litchfield. 

Arch. I thank thee, my dear brother in iniquity. 

Aim. Iniquity! pr'ythee leave canting j you need 
not change your stile with your dress. 

Arch. Don't mistake me, Aimwell, for 'tis still my 
maxim, that there's no scandal like rags, nor any 
■crime so shameful as poverty. Men must not be poor^ 
idleness is the root of all^ evil ; the world's wide 
-enough, let 'em bustle : fortune has taken the weak 
under her protection, bat men of sense are left 
to their industry. 

Aim. Upon which topic we proceed, and, I think, 
luckily hitherto. Would not any man swear now 



that I am a man of quality, and you my sei-vant, 
when, if our intrinsic \^alue were known. 

Arch, Come, come, Ave are the men of intrinsic 
value, who can strike our fortunes out of ourselves, 
whose worth is independent of accidents in life, or 
revolutions in o^overnment : we have heads to sret 
money, and hearts to spend it. 

Aim. As to our hearts, I grant ye they are as wil- 
ling tits as any within twenty degrees ; but I can have 
no great opinion of our heads from the service they 
have done us hitiierto, unless it be that they brought 
us from London hither to Litchfield, made me a lord, 
and you my servant. ' 

A7-ch. That's more than you could expefi already. 
— But what money have we left '. 

Aim. But two hundred pounds. 

Arch. And our horses, clothes, rings, &c. Why, 
we have very good fortunes now for moderate people: 
and let me tell you, that this two hundred pounds, 
with the experience that Vv'e are now masters of, is a 
better estate than the ten thousand we have spent— 
our friends, indeed, began to suspe^l that our pockets 
were low ; but we came oif with flying colours, 
shewed no signs of want either in word or deed. 

Aim. Ay, and our going to Brussels was a good 
pretence enough for our sudden disappearing j and, 
I warrant you, our friends imagine that we are gone 
a volunteering. 

A/ch. Why 'faith if this projeft fails, itmuste'ea 
Gome to that. I am for venturing one of the hua- 
B ij 


dreds, if you will, upon this knight errantry } but in 
case it should fail, we'll reserve the other to carry ui 
to some counterscarp, where we may die as we liv'd, 
in a blaze. 

Aim. With all my heart ; and we have liv'd justly. 
Archer j we can't say that we have spent our fortunes, 
but that we have enjoy 'd 'em. 

Arcb. Right ; so much pleasure for so much mo - 
ney; we have had our penny-worths ; and had I 
millions I would go to the same market again. O 
London, London ! Well, we have had our share, and 
let us be thankful : past pleasures, for ought I know, 
are best, such as we are sure of: those to come may 
disappoint us. But you command for the day, and 
so I submit.— At Nottingham, you know, I am to 
be master. 

Aim. And at Lincoln I again. 

Arch. Then, at Norwich I mount, which, I think, 
shall be our last stage ? for if we fail there, we'll em- 
bark for Holland, bid adieu to Venus, and welcome 

Aim. A match! [.£'«/£'r Boniface.] Mum. 

Bon. What will your worship please to have for 
supper ? 

Aim. What have you got ? 

Bon. Sir, we have a delicate piece of beef in the 
pot, and a pig at the fire. 

Aim. Good supper-meat, I must confess- 1 caji'C 

eat beef, landlord. 

^iy'ck. And I hate pig. 


Aim. Hold your prating, sirrah ! Do you know wlio 
you are ? [AsUe, 

Bon. Please to bespeak something else 3 I have 
every thing in the house. 

Aim. Have you any veal ? 

Bo?t. Veal ! sir, we had a delicate loin of veal on 
Wednesday last. < '- 

Aim. Have you got any fish, or wild-fowl ? 

Bo7i. As for fish, truly, sir, we are an inland town, 
and indifferently provided with fish, that's the truth 

on "t ; but then for wild-fowl ! we have a delicate 

couple of rabbits. 

Aim. Get me the rabbits fricasseed. 

Bon. Fricaseed ! Lard, sir, theyll eat much better 
smother'd with onions. 

Ar:h.. Pshaw! Rot your onions. 

Ai?n. Again, sirrah !— Well, landlord, what you 
please J but hold, I have a small charge of money, 
and your house is so full of strangers, that I believe 
it may be safer in yoar custody than mine ; for when 

this fellow of mine gets drunk, he minds nothing .. 

Here, sirrah, reach me the strong box. 

Arch, Yes, sir this will give us reputation. 

[^Asliie. Brittgs the box., 

Aim. Here, landlord, the locks are sealed down, 
both for your security and mine j it holds somewhat 
above two hundred pounds : if you doubt it, V\\ 
count them to you after supper 5 but be sure you lay 
It where I may have it at a minute's warning j for my 
airairs are a little dubious at present j perhaps I ma/ 
B iij 

jg B2AUX STPvATAGEM. ife? /. 

be gone in half an hourj pei'haps I miy be your 
guest till the best part of that be spent j and pray 
order your ostler to keep my horses ready Sviddled : 
but one thing above the re.t, I must beg that you will 
let this fellow have none of your annodomini.asyou 
call it j — —for he's the most insufferable sot— Here, 
sirraii, light me to my chamber. 

Arch. Yes, sir. [Exit, lighted by Archer. 

Boh. Cheny, daughter Cherry 1 

Enter Cherry. 

Cher. D'ye call, father. 

Bon. Ay, child, you must lay by this box for the 
gentleman, 'tis full of money. 

Cher. Money 1 is all that money! why sure, father, 
the gentleman comes to be chosen parliament-man. 
Who is he ? 

Ben. I don't know what to make of him ; he talks 
of keeping his horses ready saddled, and of going per- 
haps at a minute's warning, or ofstaying perhaps till 
the best part of this be spent. 

Cher. Ay! ten to one, father, he's a highwayman. 

Bon. A highwaynan ! Upon my life, girl, you 
have hit it, and this box is some new purchased 
booty. — Now, could we find him out, the money 
were ours. 

Cher. He don't belong to our gang. 

Bon. What horses have they ? 

Cher. The master rides Upon a black. 

Bon. A black ! ten to on-; the man upon the blad? 

*^^^^ Seaux stratagem. 19 

mare ; and since he don't belong to our fraternity, we 
may betray him with a safe conscience. I don't think 
it lawful to harbour any rogues but my own. 
Look 'ye, child, as the saying is, we must go cun- 
nmgly to work j proofs we must have ; the gentle- 
man's servant love's drink, PIl ply him that wayj and 
ten to one he loves a wench 5 you must work him 
t'other way. 

Cker. Father, would you have me give my secret 
for his ? 

Bon, Consider, child, there's two hundred pounds 

to boot.^ IB.ingiiig nvithout.-] Coming, coming 

Child, mind your business. S^Exit Bon. 

Cher, What a rogue is my father!— My father ! 1 
deny it My m.other was a good, generous, free- 
hearted woman, and I can't tell how far her good 
nature might have extended for the good of her chil- 
dren. This landlord of mine, for I think I can call 
him no more, would betray his guest and debauch his 
daughter into the bargain by a footman too ! 

Enter Archer. 

Arch. What footman, pray, mistress, is so happy 
as to be the subjea of your contemplation ? 

Cher. Whoever he is, friend, he'll be but little the ' 
better for't. 

Arch. I hope so, for I'm sure you did not think &f 

Cher. Suppose I had ! 

Arch, Why then you're but even with me : forth^ 


minute I came in, I was considering in what manner 
J should make love to you. 

Cher. Love to me, friend! 

Arch. Yes, child. 

Cher. Child ! Manners ; if you keep a little mors 
distance, friend, it would become yo much better. 

Arch. Distance! good night, sauce-box. [Going. 

Cher. A pretty fellow! I like his pride— Sir j pray» 
sir; you see sir [Avchtr returns.'] I have the credit 
to be trusted with your master's fortune here, whicbi 
sets me a degree above his footman. I hope, sir, )^u 
an't affronted. 

Arch. Let me look you full in the face, and I'll tell 

you whether you can affront me or no. '"Sdeath, 

child, you have a pair of delicate eyes, and you don't 
know what to do with 'em. 

Cher. Whjy sir, don't I see every body ? 

Arch. Ay, but if some women had them, they would 

kill everybody. Pr'ythee instruct me ; I would! 

fain make love to you, but I don't know what to say. 

Cher. Why, did you never make love to any bod/ 
before ? 

Arch. Never to a person of your figure,! can assure 
you, madam; my addresses have always been con- 
fined to persons within my own sphere ; I never 
aspir'd so high before. ' [Archer jin^u 

But you look so bright j 

And are dreis'd so Ughfy 

That a ?nan vjould swear you re r'i^kt. 


As arm <was e'er laid onjer. 
Such an air 
You freely tvear 
To ejisnare 
As makes each guest a lo<ver : 
Since then, my dear, V m your guest ^ 
Pr^ythee gi^e me of the best 
Ofnvhat is ready drest. 
Since then my dear^ &c. 

Che)'. '< What can I think of this man ?'' [Aside,'} 
Will you give me that song, sir ? 

Arch . Ay, my dear, take it while it Is warm . [Kissej 
her.] Deathandfire! her lips are honey-combs. 

Cher, And I wish there had been a swarm of bees 
tooj to have stung you for your impudence. 

Arch. There's a swarm of cupids, my little Venus, 
that has done the business much better. 

Cher. This fellow is misbegotten as well as I, 
{Asidet] What's your name, sir? 

A'ch. Name 1 I gad, I have forgot it. [Aside,] Oh, 

Cher, Where was you born ? 

Arch. In St. Martin's parish. 

Cher, What was your father > 

Aj-ch. Of of St. Martin's parish, 

Cher, Then, friend, goodnight. 

Arch. I hope not. 

C'^fr. You may depend upon't. 

Arch, Upon what? 


Cher. That you're very impudent. 

Arch. That you are very handsome. 

Cher. Thas you're a footman. 

Arch. That you're an angel. 

Cher. I shall be rude. 

Arch. So shall I. 

Cher. Let go my hand. 

Arch. Give me a kiss. ^^Kis.esher^ 

[Boniface calls 'ivithoufy Cherry, Cherry.] 

Cher. I'm My father calls ! you plaguy devil, 

how durst you stop my breath so? —Offer to follow 
me one step, if you dare. \^Exit» 

Arch. A fair challenge, by this light j this is a 
pretty fair opening of an adventure j but we are 
knight-errants, and so fortune be our guide. [^Exit. 


A Gallery in Lady Bountiful's House. Mrs. Sul- 
len and DoRiNDA meeeing. 

Morrow, my dear sister j are you for church this 

Mrs. Sid. Any where to pray j for heaven alone 
can help me: but I think, Dorinda, there's no form 
of prayer in the liturgy against bad husbands. 

Dor. But there's a form of law at Do6lor's Com- 
mons i and I swear, sister Sullen, rather than sec you 


thus ccntinualiy discontented, I would advise you to 
apply to that: for besides the part that I bear in your 
vexatious broils, as being sister to the husband, and 
friend to the wife, your examples give me such an 
impression of matrimony, that I shall be apt to con, 
'iemn my person to a long vacation all its life. But 
supposing, madam, that you bi-oaght it to a case of 
separation, what can you urge against your hpsband \ 
My brother is, first, the most constant man alive. 
Mrs. Sid, The most constant husband, I grant ye. 
Dor. He never sleeps from you. 
Mrs. Dol. No, he always sleeps v/ith me. 
Dor. He allows you a maintenance suitable to your 

Mrs. SuL A maintenance ! Do you take me, madam, 
for an hospital child, that I must sit down and bless 
my benefactors for meat, drink, and clothes ? As I 
take it, madam, I brought your brother ten thousand 
pounds, out of which I might expe<5t some pretty 
things called pleasures. 

Dor. You share in all the pleasures the country 

Mrs. Sul. Country pleasures ! Racks and torments* 
Post think, child, that my limbs were made for leap- 
jpg of ditches, and clambering over stiles. Or, that my 
parents, wisely foreseeing my future happiness in 
fountry pleasures, had early instrufted me in rural ac- 
Cprnpiishments, of drinking fat ale, playing at whist, 
snd ^moaking tobaccowith my husband ; or of spread-, 
ing of phisters, brewing of diet drinks, and sfalling; 


rosemary-water, with the good old gentlewoman* 
my mother-in-law ? 

Do*-. I'm sorry, madam, that it is not more in our 
power to divert you j I could wish, indeed, that ouf 
entertainments were a little more polite, or your taste 
a little less refined j but pray, madam, how came the 
poetsandphilosophersjthat laboured so much inhunt- 
ing after pleasure, to place it at last in a country life. 

Mrs. SuL Because they wanted money, child, to find 
out the pleasures of the town. Did you ever hear of a 
poet or philosopher worth ten thousand pounds ? If 
you can shew me such a man, I'll lay you fifty pounds, 
youil find him somev/here within the weekly bills. 
Not that I disapprove rural pleasures, as the p*bets 
have painted them in their landscapes j every Phillis 
has her Corydon; every murmuring stream, and 
every flowery mead gives fresh alarm to love. Be- 
sides, you'll find that their couples were never mar- 
ried. But yonder I see my Corydon, and a sweet 
swain it is. Heaven knows ! Come, Dorinda, don't be 
angry, he's my husband, and your brother, and, be- 
tween both, is he not a sad brute ? 

Dor. I have nothing to say to your part of him, 
you're the best judge. 

Mrs. Sid. D, sister, sister 1 if ever you marry, be- 
ware of a sullen, silent sot, one that's always musing, 
but never thinks . There's some diversion in a talking 
blockhead ; and since a woman must wear chains, I 
would have the pleasure of hearing 'em rattle a little. 
Nowycu shall see j but take this by the way j he came 


home this morning at his usual hour of four, wakened 
me out of a sweet dream of something else, by tum- 
bling over the tea-table, which he broke all to pieces. 
After his man and he had rolled about the room, like 
sick passengers in a storm, he comes flounce into bed, 
dead as a salmon into a fishmonger's basket j his feet 
cold as ice ; his breath hot as a furnace ; and his hands 

and his face greasy as his flannel night cap Oh! 

matrimony ! matrimony ! He tosses up the clothes 

with a barbarous sw^ing over his shoulders, disorders 
the whole economy of my bed, leaves me half-naked, 
and my whole nighfs comfort is the tuneable sere- 
nade of that wakeful nightingale his nose. O, 

the pleasure of counting a melancholy clock by a 

snoring husband ! But now, sister, you shall see 

how handsomely, being a well-bred man, he will beg 
my pardon . 

Enter Sullen. 

Sul. My head aches consumedly. 

Mrs. Sul. Will you be pleased, my dear, to drink 
tea with us this morning j it may do your head good ? 

Sul. No. 

Dcr. Coffee, brother ? 

Sul. Pshaw' 

Mrs. Sul. Will you please dress, and gc to church 
with me ? the air may help you. 

Sul. Scrub! 

Enter Scrub. 
Scrr^b. Sir! 



Sul. What day o' th' week is this ? 

Scrub. Sunday, an't please your worship. 

Sul. Sunday ! bring me a dram j and, d'ye hear, set 
out the venison-pasty and a tankard of strong beer 
upon the hall table, I'll go to breakfast. [Goi.'ig. 

Dor. Stay, stay, brother, you shan't get off so j 
you were very naughty last night, and must make your 
wife reparation. Come, come, brother, won't yo\a 
ask pardon ? 

Sul. For what ? 

Dor. For being drunk last night. 

Sul. I can afford it, can't I ? 

Mrs. Sul. But I can't sir. 

Sul. Then you may let it alone. 

Mrs. Sul. But I must tell you, sir, that this is not 
to be borne. 

Sul. I'm glad on't. 

Mrs. Sul. What is the reason, sir, that you use me 
thus inhumanly ? 

Sul. Scrub ! 

Scrub. Sir! 

Sul. Get things ready to shave my head. [Exit. 

Mrs. Sul. Have a care of coming neanhis temples. 
Scrub, for fear you meet something there that may 
turn the edge of your razor. [Exit Scrub.] Inveterate 
stupidity ! Did you ever know so hard, so obstinate 
a spleen as his ? O, sister, sister ! I shall never have 
any good of the beast till I get him to town j London, 
dear London is the place for managing and breaking 


Dor, And has not a husband the same opportunities 
there for humbling a wife ? 

Mrs. SuL No, no, child j 'tis a standing maxim in 
conjugal discipline, that when a man v/ould enslave 
his wife, he hurries her into the country j and when 
a lady would be arbitrary with her husband, she 
wheedles her booby up to town. A man dare not 
play the tyrant in London, because there are so many 
examples to encourage the subje6l to rebel. O, Do- 
rinda, Dorindal a fine woman may do any thing in 
London. O' my conscience, she may raise an army 
of forty thousand men. 

Dor. I fancy, sister, you have a mind to be trying 
your power that way here in Litchfield ; you have 
drawn the French count to your colours already. 

Mrs. SuL The French are a people that can't live 
without their gallantries. 

Dor. And some English that I know, sister, are not 
averse to such amusements. 

Mrs. Sul. Well, sister, since the truth must out, it 
may do as well now as hereafter j I think one way to 
rouse my lethargic, sottish husband, is to give him a 
rival J security begets negligence in all people, and 
men must be alarmed to make 'em ydert in their duty. 
Women are, like pi6lures, of no value in the hands 
of a fool, till he hears men of sense bid high for the 

Dor. This might do, sister, if my brother's under- 
standing were to be convinced into a passion for you j 
but, I believe, there's a natural aversion on his side , 
C ij 


and I f:incy, sister, that you don't come much behind 
him, if you dealt fairly. 

Mrs. SuL I own it j we are united contradictions, 
fire and water. But I could be contented, with a great 
many other wives, to humour the censorious vulgar> 
and give the world an appearance of living well with 
my husband, could I bring him but to dissemble a 
little kindness to keep me in countenance. 

Dor. But how do you know sister, but that instead of 
rousing your husband, by this artifice, to a counter- 
feit kindness, he should awake in a real fury ? 

Mrs. SkL Let him. If I can't entice him to the 

one, I v/ould provoke him to the other. 

Dor. But how must I behave myself between ye ? 

Mrs. Sul. You must assist me. 

Dor. What, against my own brother ? 

Mrs. Sul. He's but half a brother, and I'm your 
entire friend. If I go a step beyond the bounds of 
honour, leave me j till then, I expeft you should go 
along with me in everything. The count is to dine 
here to-day. 

Dor. 'Tis a strange thing, sister, that Ican't like 
that man. 

Mrs. Sul. You like nothing ; your time is not come. 
Love and death have their fatalities, and strike home 
one time or other . — You'll pay for all one day, I war- 
rant ye. — But come, my lady's tea is ready, and 'tis 
almost church-time. {Exeunt, 


SCENE 11. 

*Tbe Inn . Enter AiMW ^1.1. dressed, and Archer. 

Aim. And was she the daughter of the house ? 

Arch. The landlord is so blind as to think so j but 
I dare swear she has better blood in her veins. 

Aim. Why dost think so ? 

A}-ch. Because the baggage has a pert je-ne-s^ay 
quoi ; she reads plays, keeps a monkey, and is troubled 
with vapours. 

Aim. By which discoveries I guess that you kno-w 
more of her. 

Arch. Not yet, faith. The lady gives herself airs, 
forsooth ; nothing under a gertleman. 

Ai?n. Let me take her in hand. 

Arch. Say one word more o'that, and I'll declare 
myself, spoil your sport there, and every where else. 
Look ye, Aimwell, every man in his own sphere. 

Aim. Right, and therefore you must pimp for your 

Arch. In the usual forms, good sir, after I have 
served myself — But to our business. You are so well 
dress'd, Tom, and make so handsome a figure that I 
fancy you may do execution in a country chiirch j the 
exterior part strikes first, and you"'i e in the right to 
make that impression favourable. 

Aim. There's something in that which may turn 
to advantage. The appearance of a stranger in^ a 
C iij 


country church draws as many gazers as a blazinsf 
star : no sooner he comes into the cathedral, but a 
train of whispers runs buzzing round the congrega- 
tion in a moment. Who is he ? Whence comes 

he? Do you know him! Then I, sir, tips me the 

vei-ger half a crown j he pockets the simony, and 
induds me into the best pew in the church ; I pull 
out my snuff" box, turn myself round, bow to the 
bishop, or the dean, if he be the commanding officer, 
single out a beauty, rivet both my eyes to hers, set 
my nose a bleeding by the strength of imagination, 
and shew the whole church my concern, by my en- 
deavouring to hide it j after the sermon, the whole 
town gives me to her for a lover, and, by persuading 
the lady that I am dying for her, the tables are turned, 
and she in good earnest falls in love with me. 

Arch. There's nothing in this, Tom, without a 
precedent j but instead of rivetting your eyes to a 
beauty, try to fix them upon a fortune j that's our 
business at present. 

Am. Pshaw ! no woman can be a beauty without a 
fortune. Let me alone for a marksman. 

Arch. Tom ! 

Aim, Aye ' 

Arch. Wiien were you at church before, pray? 
. Aim. Um — I was there at the coronation. 

Arch. And bow can you expe6l a blessing by going 
to church now ? 

Aim. Blessing ! Nay, Frank, I ask but for a wife, 



Arch. Truly, the man is not very unreasonable in 
his demands . lExit at the opposite door. 

Enter Boniface a?id Cherry. 

Bon. Well, daughter, as the saying is, have you 
brought Martin to confess ? 

Cher. Pray, father, don't put me upon getting any 
thing out of a man ; I'm but young, you know, fa- 
ther, and don't understand wheedling. 

Bon. Young! why, you jade, as the saying is, can 
any woman wheedle that is not young. Your mother 
was useless at five and twenty. Would you make your 
mother a whore, and me a cuckold, as the saying is ? 
I tell you, his silence confesses it, and his master 
spends his money so freely, and is so much a gentle 
man every manner of way, that he must be a high- 
wayman . 

Efzter Gibbet i?t a doah, 
Gib. Landlord, landlord, is the coast clear > 
Bo?t. O, Mr. Gibbet, what's the news ? 
Gib. No matter, ask no questions, all's fair and ho- 
nourable ; here, my dear Cherry, ^Gi^jes her a bag.] 
two hundred sterling pounds, as good as ever hanged 
or saved a rogue 5 lay 'em by with the rest } and here 
—three wedding — or mourning rings, 'tis much the 

same, you know. Here, two silver hiked swords j 

I took these from fellows that never shew any part of 
their swords but the hilts. Here is a diamond neck.' 
lace, which the lady hid in the privatest place in the . 

3l BEAUX sttataCem. At7 Ih 

coach, but I found it out. This gold watch I took 
from a pawnbroker's wife, it was left in her hands by 
a person of quality, there's the arms upon the case, 

Cher. But who had you the m~oney from ? 

Gib. Ah 1 poor woman, I pitied her j — : — from a 
poor lady just eloped from her husband; she had 
made up her cargo, and was bound for Ireland, as 
hard as she could drive ; she told me of her husband's 
barbarous usage, and so, fcuth, I left her half a crown. 
But I had alm.ost forgot, my dear Cherry, I have a 
present for you. 

Cher. Whatis^? 

Gib. A pot of ceruse, my child, that I took out of 
a lady's under petticoat pocket. 

Cher, What, Mr. Gibbet, do you think that I 
paint ? 

Gib. Why, you jade, your betters do ; I'm sure 
the lady that I took it from had a coronet upon her 

handkerchief Here, take my cloak, and go secure 

the premises. 

Cher. I v/ill secure 'em. \^Exii. 

Bon. But, hark ye, where's Hounslow vand Bag- 
shot ? 

Gib. They'll be here to-night. 

Bon. D'ye know of any other gentleman o'the pad 
on. this road? 

Gib. No. 

Ben. I fiincy that I have two that lodge in the house; 
just nov/. 

Gib. The devil 1 how d'ye smoak 'era ? 


Bon. Why, the one is gone to church. 

Gib. To church ! That's suspicious, I must con- 

Bon, And the other is now in his master's cham- 
ber j he pretends to be a servant to the other j we'll 
call him out, and pump him a little. 

Gib. With all my heart. 

Bon. Mr. Martin ! Mr. Martin ! 

Enter Archer combing a peri^ng, and singing, ' 

Gib. The roads are consumed deep, I'm as dirty as 
Old Brentford at Christmas. A good pretty fel- 
low, that ; whose servant are you, friend? 

Jrcb. My master's. 

'Gib. Really ? 

Arcb. Really. 

Gib. That's much.— That fellow has been at the 
bar, by his evasions :— But pray, sir, what is your 
master's name ? 

Ard. Tall, all, dall.--[^z';;^j and combs the peri^^ig.l 
This is the most obstinate curl 

Gib. I ask you his name ? 

_ Arch. Name, sir— Tall, all, dall— I never asked 
him his name in my life— Tall, all, dall. 

Bon. What think you know ? 

Gib. Plain, plain j he talks nov/ as if he were be- 
fore a judge. But pray, friend, which way dpes your 
master travel ? 

Arch. A horseback. 

Gib. Very well again j an old offender-^Right-. 


But I mean does he go upwards or downwards ? ^ 
Arch. Downwards > I fear, sir— Tall, lall. 
Gib. I'm afraid thy fate will be a contrary way. 
Bon. Ha, ha, ha! Mr. Martin, you're very arch. 
— This gentiemai is only travelling towai'ds Chester, 

and would be glad of your company, that's all. 

Come, captain, you'll stay to-night, I suppose j Til 

shew you a ciiamber Come, captain. 

Gib. Farewell, friend \_Exeunt. 

Arch. C.iptain, your servant. — Captain ! a pretty 

fellow! 'Sdeath! I wonder that the officers of the 

army don't conspire to beat all scoundrels in red but 

their own. 

Enter Cherry. 
Cher. Gone, and Martin here ! I hope he did not 
listen : I would have the merit of the discovery all 
my own, because I would oblige him to love me. 
[AsiJe.'] Mr. Martin, who was that man with my fa- 
ther ? 

Arch. Some recruiting serjeant, or whipp'd-out 
trooper, I suppose. 

Cher. Airs safe, I find. [Asicie. 

I Arch. Come, my dear, have you conn'd over the 
catechise I taught you last night ? 
Cher. Come, question me. 
Arch. What is love ? 

Cher. Love is I know not what, it comes I know 
not how, goes I know not when. 

^T-6. Very well, an apt scholar. \_Chu:hs her under 
the chin.'] Where does love enter ? 


Cher. Into the eyes. 

Arch. And where go out ? 

Cher. I won't tell you. 

Arch. What are the ohjefts of that passion ? 

Cher. Youth, beauty, and clean linen. 

Arch. The reason ? 

Cher. 'The two first are foshionable in nature, and 
the third at court. 

Arch. That's my dear. What are the signs and 
tokens of that passion. 

Cher.' A stealing look, a stammering tongue, words 
improbable, designs impossible, and actions imprac- 

Arch. That's my good child 5 kiss me What 

must a lover do to obtain his mistress ? 

Cher. He must adore the person that disdains him, 
he must bribe the chambermaid that betrays him, and 

court the footman that laughs at him ! He must, 

he must 

Arch. Nay, child, I must whip you, if you don't 
mind your lesson ; he must treat his 

Cher. O ! aye. He must treat his enemies with 
respeft, his friends with indiiference, and all the 
world with contempt j he must suffer much, and fear 
rrorej he must desire much, and hope little j in 
short, he must embrace his ruin, and throw himself 

Arch. Had ever man so hopeful a pupil as mine \ 
Come, my dear j why is love called a riddle ? 

^her. Because, being blind, he leads those that see ; 


and» though a child, he governs a man. 

Arcb. Mighty well.— And why is love piftured 

Chef. Because the painters, out of their weakness, 
or the privilege of their art, chose to hide those ej^es 
they could not draw. 

Jrch. That's my dear little scholar, kiss me again 

. And why should love, that's a child, govern a 


Cher. Because that a child is the end of love. 

Jrch. And so ends love's catechism- And now, 

my dear, we'll go in, and make my master's bed. 

Cher. Hold, hold, Mr. Martin you have taken 

a great deal of pains to instruft me, and what d'ye 
think I have learned by it ? 

Arch. What? 

Cher. That your discourse and j^our habit are con- 
tradi6lions, and it would be nonsense in me to believe 
you a footman any longer. 

Arch. 'Oons, what a witch it is 1 

Cher. Depend upon this, sir, nothing in that garb 
shall ever tempt me : for though I was born to servi- 
tude, I hate it Own your condition, swear you 

love me, and then 

Arch. And then we shall go make my master's bed. 

Cher. Yes. 

Arch. You must know then, that I am born a 
gentleman, my education was liberal ; but I went to 
London a younger brother, fell into the hands of 
shai-pers, v;ho stript me of my money, my friends 


disowned me, and now my necessity brings me to 
what you see. 

Cher. Then take my hand promise to marry 

me before you sleep, and 111 make you master of 
two thousand pounds. 

Jrd. Howl 

Cher. Two thousand pounds that I have this minute 
in my own. custody j so throw off your livery this in* 
stant, and I'll go find a parson. 

Arch. What said you? a parson. 

Cher. What ! Do you scruple ? 

Arch. Scruple ! No, no, but — two thousand pounds 
you say ? 

Cher. And better. 

Arch. 'Sdeath, what shall I do ?— — But harkye, 
child, what need you make me master of yourself 
and money, when you may have the same pleasure 
out of me, and still keep your fortune in your own 
hands ? 

Cher. Then you won't marry me ? 

Arch. I would marry you, but 

Cher. O, sweet sir, I'm your humble servant, you're 
fairly caught. Would you persuade me that any 
gentleman who could bear the scandal of wearing 
a livery, would refuse two thousand pounds, let the 
condition be what it would — No, no, sir — But I 
iiope you'll pardon the freedom I have taken, since 
it was only to inform myself of the respeft that I 
ought to pay to you. [Going, 



Arch, Fairly bit, by Jupiter! — Hold, hold! and 
have you ailually two thousand pounds ? 

Cher, Sir, I have my secrets as well as you— when 
you please to be more open, I shall be more free ; and 
be allured that I have discoveries that will match 

yours, be they what they will. In the mean while 

be satisHeri, that no discovery I make shall ever huirt 
you } but beware of my father.^- — [^Exit. 

Arch. So — we Ye like to have as many adventures 
in our inn, as Don Quixote had in his.— -Let me see — 
two thousand pounds ! If the wench would promise 
to die when the money were spent, i'gad, one would 
i^arry her ; but the fortune may go off in a year or 

two, and the wife may live Lord knows how . 

ioT^g : Then an inn-keeper"s daughter ! Aye, that's 
tlie devil—there my pride brings me off. 

For vjhatsoe'cr the sages charge on pride ^ 

'T'ke angels fall, ayidt^wejity faJdts beside j 

On earth, Pjn sure, '^motig us cf mortal calUnq, 

Pride salves man oft, and ^ivoman too, frotn falUng, 


Aa III* Beaux stPvAtagem* 39 


Lady BountifulV House. Enter Mrs. Sullen 


Mrs. Sullen. 
Ha, ha, ha, my dear sister ! let me embrace thee, 
now we are friends indeed ; for I shall have a secret 

of your's as a pledge for mine Now you'll be good 

for something, I shall have you conversable in the 
subjefts of the sex. 

Dor. But do you think that I am so weak as to fill 
In love with a fellow at first sio-ht ? 


Mrs. Sul. Pshaw ! now you spoil all j why should 
not we be as free in our friendships as the men ? I 
warrant you, the gentleman has got to iiis confidant 
already, has avowed his passion, toasted your health, 
called you ten thousand angels, has run over your 
•lips, ejres, neck, shape, air, and every thing, in a 
description that warms their mirth to a second enjoy- 

Dor. Your hand,, sister : I a'n't well. 

Mrs. Sul. So—she's breeding already— Come, child, 
up with it— hem a little— so— Now tell me, don't you 
like the gentleman that we saw at church just now ? 

Dor. The man's well enough. 

Mrs. Sul. Well enough ! Is he not a demi-god, a 
Narcissus, a star, the man i'the moon? 
Dij . 


Dor. O, sister, rm extremely 111. 

Mrs. Sul. Shall I send to your mother, child, for a 
little cephalic pkuster to put to the soles of your 
feet ? Or shall I send to the gentleman for something 

for you ? Come, unbosom yourself — the man is 

perfe6l]y a pretty fellow j I saw him when he first 
came into church. 

Dor. I saw him too, sister, and with an air that 
shone, methought, like rays about his person. 
I Ms. SuL Well said, up v/ith it. 

Dor. No forward coquet behaviour, no air to set 

him off, no studied looks, nor artful posture, but- 

nature did it all 

Mrs. Sul. Better and better One touch more- 

Dor. But then his looks — did you observe his eyes ? 

Mrs. SuL Yes, yes, I did — —his eyes ; well, what 
of his eyes ? 

Dor. Sprightly, but not wandering ; they seemed 
to view, but never gaz'd on any thing but me — and 
then his looks so humble were, and yet so noble, that 
they aimed to tell me, that he could with pride die at 
my feet, though he scorned slavery any where else. 

Mrs. SuL Tlie physic works purely. How d'ye 

find yourself now, my dear ? 

Dor. Hem ! Much better, my dear — Oh, here 
comes our Mercury ! 

Enter Scrub. 
Dor. Well, Scrub, what news of the gentleman ? 


Scrub. Madam, I have brought you a whole packet 
of news. 

Do?'. Open it quickly ; come. 

Scmb. In the first place, I enquired who the gen- 
tleman was ? They told me he was a stranger. Se- 
condly, I asked what the gentleman was ? They 
answered and said, that they never saw him before. 
Thirdly, I enquired what countryman he was ? They 
reply'd, 'twas more than they knew. Fourthly, I de- 
manded whence he came ? Their answer was, they 
cou'd not tell. And fifthly, I asked whither he v.-ent t 
And they reply'd, they knew nothing of the matter. 
■ And this is all I could learn. 

Mrs. Sul. But what do the people say ? Can't they 

Scrub. Why some think he's a spy, some guess he's 
a mountebank, some say one thing, some another j 
but for my own part, I believe he's a Jesuit. 

■Dor. A Jesuit! whyajesuiti 

Scrub. Because he keeps his horses always ready 
saddled, and his footman talks French. 

Mrt. Sul. His footman ! 

Scrub. Ay, he and the count's footmen were gab- 
bering French like two intriguing ducks in a mill- 
pond j and I believe they talked of me, for they 
laugh'd consumedly. 

Dor. What sort of livery has the footman ? 

Scrub. Livery ! Lord, madam, I -took him for a 
captain, he"s so bedizen'd with lace ; and then he has 
tops to bis shoes, up to his mid-leg, a silver headed 


c:me dangling at his knuckles -, — he carries his hands 
in his pockets, and walks just so — \_Walks in a French 
iz/r.] and has a fine long perriwig ty'd up in a bag — 
Lord, madam, he's clear another sort of a man than I. 

Mrs. SuL That may e:isily be. But what shall 

we do now, sister ? 

Dor. I have it This fellow has a world of sim- 
plicity, and some cunning j the first hides the latter 
by abundance. Scrub. 

Scrub. Madam. 

Dor. We have a great mind to know who this gen- 
tleman is, only for our satisfafVion. 

Scrub. Yes, madam, it would be a satisfa6Hon, no 

Dor. Yon ijiust go and get acquainted with his 
footman, and invite him hither to drink a bottled 
your kle, because you're butler to-duy. 

Scrub. Yes, m.adam, I'm butler every Sunday. 

Pflrs. SuL O brave sister ! o' my conscience you 
understand the mathematics already. — 'Tis the best 
plot in the world I Your mother, you know, will be 
gone to church, my spouse will be got to the ale- 
house with his scoundrels, and the house will be our 

own so we drop in by accident, and ask the fel- 

hnv some questions ourselves. In the country, you 
kriov/j any btranger is company, and we're glad to 
take up with the butler in a country dance, and happy 
if h.e will do us the favour.- 

S.fuib. Oh, midam, you wrong me; I never re- 
fiiK'd vour ladyship a fa'#our in my life. 


Enter GiF SKY. 
Gip. Ladies, dinner's upon table. 

Dor. Scrub, well excuse your waiting. Ge 

where we order 'd you. 
Scrub. I shall. 

, SCENE 11. 

Changes to the Inn. Enter Aim well ard Archer. 

Arch. Well, Tom, I lind you're a marksmr-n. 

Aim. A marksman ! who so blind could be as nor 
discern a swan among the ravens ? 

Arch. Well, but heark'e, Aimwell. 

Aim. Aimwell ! call me Oroondates, Cesario, 
Amadis, all that Romance can in a lover paint, and 
then I'll answer. Oh, Archer ! I read her thousands 
iu her looks j she lookd liks Ceres in her harvest j 
corn, wine, and oil, milk, honey, gardens, groves, 
and purlin* streams, play'd on her plenteous face. 

Arch. Her face ! her pocket, you mean ! the corn, 
wine, and oil lie there. In short, she has twenty 
thousand pounds, that's the English on't. 

Aim. Her eyes 

: Arch. Are demi-c:.ii.icnSj to be sure ; so I wo'nt 
stand their battery. [Gcin^. 

Aim. Piay^ excuse me^ my passion must have vent. 

Arch. Passion ! what a plague, d'ye think these ro- 
inantic airs will do our business ? Were my temper 


as extravagant as yours, my adventures have some- 
thing more romantic by half. 
Aim. Your adventures ! 

Arch. Yes. 

The Nymph that n'/tth her livice ten hundred pounds y 
fViih brazen engine hot, and coif clear starch\iy 
Can fire the guest in ^im arming of the bed 

There's a touch of sublime Milton for you, and the 
subjeft but an inn-keeper's daughter. 1 can play 
with a girl as an angler does with his fish ; he keeps 
it at the end of his line, runs it up the stream, and 
down the stream, till at last he brings it to hand, 
tickles the trout, and so whips it into his basket. 

Enter Boniface. 

Bon. Mr. Martin, as the saying is yonder's an 

honest fellow below, my lady BountifuPs butler, who 
begs the honour that you would go home with him 
and see his'^cellar. 

Arch. Do my baise-mains to the gentleman, and 
tell him I will do myself the honour to wait on him 
immediately, as the saying is. 

Bon. I shall do your worship's commands, as the 
saying is. \_Ex4t, bo-iving obsequiously , 

Aim. What do I hear ? soft Orpheus play, and fair 
Toftida sing ! 

A7-ch. Pshaw ! Damn your raptures j I tell you 
here's a pump going to be put into the vessel, and the 


ship will get into harbour, my life on't. You say 
there's another lady very handsome there. 

Aim. Yes, faith. 

Arch, I'm in love with her already. 

Aim. Can't you give me a bill upon Cherry in the 
mean time ? 

Arch. No, no, friend, all her corn, wine, and oil 

is ingross'd to my market. And once more I 

warn you, to keep your anchorage clear of mine jfor * . 
if you fall foul of me, by this light, you shall go to 

the bottom ■ What ! make a prize of m.y little 

frigate, while I am upon the cruize for you. You're 
a pretty fellow indeed 1 S^Exit, 

£;?/^r Boniface. 

Aim. Well, well, I won't. Landlord ; have 

you any tolerable company in the house ? I doii't 
care for dining alone, 

Bon. Yes, sir, there's a captain below, as the say- 
ing is, that arriv'd about an hour ago. 

Aim. Gentlemen of his coat are welcome every* 
where j w ill you make a compliment for me, and teil 
him I should be glad of his company, that's all. 

Ban. Who shall I tell him, sir, wou'd 

Aim. Ha ! that stroke was well thrown in 

I'm only a traveller, like himself, and w^ould be glad 
of his company, that's all. 

Bon. I obey your commands, as the saying it. {Exit. 

Enter Atlcu^r. 
Arch. 'Sdeath ! I had forgot 5 what title will you 
give yourself' 


Aim. My brother's, to be sure; he would never 
give me any thing else, so I'll make bold with his 

honour this bout.— » You know the rest of your 

cue ? 

Arch. Ay, ay. lExit, 

Enter Gibbet. 

Gib. Sir, I'm your's. 

Aim. 'Tis more than I deserve, sir, for I don't 
know you. 

Gib. I don't wonder at that, sir^ for you never saw 
me before 1 -hope. [^Aside^ 

Ai?n. And pray, sir, how came I by the honour of 
seeing you now. 

Gib. Sir, I scorn to intrude upon any gentleman— 
but my landlord 

Aim. O, sir, I ask your pardon, you're the captain 
he told me of. 

Gib. At your service, sir. 

Aim. What regiment, may I be so bold ? 

Gib. A marching regiment, sir j an old corps. 

Aim. Very old, if your coat be regimental. ^Aside, 
You have serv'd abroad, sir ? 

Gib. Yes, sir, in the plantations, 'twas my lot to be 
sent into the worst service ; I wou'd have quitted it 

indeed, but a man of honour, you know Besides, 

'twas for the good of my country that I should be 

abroad Any thing for the good of one's country 

- — I'm a Roman for that. 

Aim. One of the first, I'll lay my life. [Aside. 1 You 
found the West Indies very hot^ sir. 


Gib. Ay, sir, too hot for me. 

Aim. Pray, sir, ha'nt I seen your face at Will's 
Coffee iiouse ? 

Gib, Yes, sir, and at White's too. 

Aim. And where's your company now, captain ? 

Gib. They a'n't come yet. 

Aim. Why, d'ye expeft them here ? 

Gib. They'll be here to-night, sir. 

Aim. Which way do they march ? 

Gib. Across the country. The devil's in"t if I 

han't said enough to encourage him to declarer—but 
I'm afraid he's not right, I must tack about. [Aside, 

Aim. Is your company to quarter at Litchfield ? 

Gib. In this house, sir. 

Aim. What, all ? 

Gib. My company is but thin, ha, ha, ha ! we are 
but three, ha, ha, ha ! 

Aim. You're merry, sir ? 

Gib. Ay, sir, you must excuse me. Sir, I un- 
derstand the world, especially the art of travelling. 
I don't care, sir, for answering questions dire6lly 
upon the road — for I generally ride with a charge 
about me. 

Aim. Three or four, I believe, \_Aside. 

Gib. I am credibly inform'd that there are high- 
waymen upon this quarter 5 not, sir, that I could 

suspe<Sl a gentleman of your figure But truly, sir 

i have got such a way of evasion upon the road, that 
I don't care for speaking truth to any man. 
Aifn. Your caution may be necessary—Then I 


presume you're no captain. 

Gib. Not I, sir 5 captain is a good travelling name, 
and so I take it ; it stops a great many foolish enqui- 
ries that are generally made about gentlemen that 
travel ; it gives a man an air of something, and makes 

the drawer! obedient And thus far I am a cap- 

tain, and no farther. 

Aim. And pray, sir, what is your true profession ? 

Gib. O, sir, you must excuse me— upon my word, 
sir, I don't think it safe to tell you. 

Aim. Ha, ha 1 upon my word, I commend you. 

Enter Boniface. 

Well, Mr. Boniface, v/hat's the news ? 

Bott. There's another gentleman below, as the say- 
in- is, that hearing you were but two, would be glad 
to make the third man, if you'd give him leave. 

Aim. What is he ? 

Bon. A clergyman, as the saying is. 

Aim. A clergyman ! Is he really a clergyman? or 
is it only his travelling name, as my friend the captam 

lias it? 1 • u 

Bon. O, sir, he's a priest, and chaplam to the 

French officers in town. 

Aim. Is he a Frenchman ? 

Bon. Yes, sir, born at Brussels. 

Gib. A Frenchman and a priest! I won't be seen 
in bis company, sirj I have a value for my reputa- 
tion, sir. 

.Aim. Nay, but captain, since we are by ourselves 


— Can he speak English, landlord ? 

Bon. Very v/ell, sir ? you may know him as the say- 
ing is, to be a foreigner by his accent, and that's all. 

Jim. Then he has been in England before ? 

Bon. Never, sir, bat he^s master of languages, as 
the saying is j he talks Latin \ it does me good to 
hear him talk Latin. 

Aim. Then you understand Latin, Mr. Boniface. 

Bon. Not I, sir, as the saying is; but he talks it 
so very fast, that I'm sure it must be good. 

Aim. Pray desire him to -walk up. 

Bon. Here he is, as the saying is. 

Enter Foigap^d. 
Foig. Save you, gentlemens bote. 
Aim. A Frenchman ! sir, your most humble ser- 

Foig. Och, dear joy, I am your most faithful sher- 
vant, and yours alsho. 

Gib. D3«5>or, you talk very good English, but you 
have a mighty tw-ang of the foreigner. 
■'Fdg. My English is very well for the vords, but 
' -we foreigners, 5-ou know, cannot bring our tongufes 
about the. pronunciation €0 soon. 

Aim,. A foreigner I a dav/nright Teague, by this 
flight. lAsiJe.1 Were you born in France, doctor? 
Fdg.. I was educated in France, but I was horned 
ai Brussels : I am a subje6\ of the king of Spain, joy. 
. Gib. "WTiat king of Spain, sir? Speak. 
Foig. UpoE my sJioul, joy,- I cannot tell you as yet, 


Aim. Nay, captain, that was too hard upon the 
doftor, he's a stranger. 

Foig. O let him alone, dear joy, I'm of a nation 
that is not easily put out of countenance. 

Aim. Come, gentlemen, Hi end tJie dispute—— 
Here, landlord, is dinner ready ? 

Bo?i. Upon the table, as thd saying is. 

Aim. Gentlemen pray that door. ■ 

Botz. No, no, fait, the captain must lead. 

Aim. No, doctor, the churchris our guide. 

Gib. Ay, ay, so it is \_Exit foremost, iheyfoUc-v. 


Chajtges to a Gallery in Lady Bountiful's House. EfiUr 
Archer ajid Scrub singing, a?id hugging otte ano- 
ther j Scrub ^vith a tankard in his hand, Gipsey 
listening at a distance. 

Scrub. Tall, all, dall Come, my dear boy 

let's have that song once more. 

Arch. No, no, we shall disturb the family but 

will you be sure to keep the secret ? 

Scrub. Pho ! upon my honour, as I'm a gentleman. 

Arch. 'Tis enough You must know then, that 

my master is the lord viscount Aimwell ; he fought a 
duel t'other day in London, wounded his man so dan- 
gerously that he thinks fit to withdrav/ till he hears 
ijyhethe|- the gentleman's wounds be mortal Of not • 



he never was in this part of England before, so he 
chose to retire to this place, tnat's all. 

Gip, And that's enough for me. ^Exit, 

Scrub. And where were you when your master 
fought ? 

Arch. We never know of our r.iaster's quarrels. 

Scrub. No ! if our masters in the country here re- 
ceive a challenge, the first thing they do is to tell 
then- wives j the wife teiis the servantr ; the servants 
alarm the tenants, and in half an hour you shall have 
the whole country up in arms. 

Arch. To hinder two men from doing what they 

have no mind for But if you should chance to 

talk, now, of this business ? 

Scrub. Talk ! ah; sir, had I not learn'd the knack 
of holding my tongue, I had never liv'd so long in a 
great family. 

Ai-ch. Ay, ay, to be sure, there are secrets in all 

Scrub. Secrets, O Lud ! but Til say no m.ore— 

Come, sit down, we ^1 make an end of our tankard f 

Arck. V/ith all my heart : who knows but you 

and I may come to be better acquainted, eh 

Here's your lady's health: you have three, I think $ 
and to be sure there must be secrets among 'em.. 

Scrub.^ Secrets ! Ah ! friend, friend ! 1 wish I 

had a friend.- . 

Arch. Am I not you friend ? Come, you and I 
Will be sworn brothers. 




Scrub. Shall we ? 

Arch. From this minute Give me a kiss 

And now, brother Scrub 

Scrub. And, now, brother Martin, I will tell you 

a secret that will make your hair stand an end 

You must know, that I am consumedly in love. 
Arch. That^s a terrible secret, that's the truth on't. 
Scrub. That jade, Gipsey, that was with us just 
now in the cellar, is the errantest whore that ever 
wore a petticoat, and I'm dying for love of her. 

Arch. Aa, ha, ha ! Are you in love with her 

person, or her virtue, brother Scrub ? 

Scrub. I should hke virtue best, because it's more 

durable thanbeauty j for virtue holds good with some 

women, long and many a day after they have lost it. 

Arch. In the country, I grant ye, where no wo- 

man's virtue is lost, till a bastard be found. 

Scrub. Ay, could I bring her to a bastard, I shou'd 
have her all to myself; but I dare not put it upon 
that lay, for fear of being sent for a soldier— Pray, 
Drother, how do you gentlemen in London like that 
same pressing atJt ? 

Arch. Very ill, brother Scrub ^Tis the worst 

that ever was made for us ; formerly, I remember 
the good days when we could dun our masters for 
our wages, and if they refused to pay us, we could 
have a warrant to carry 'em before a justice ; but now, 
if we talk of eating, they have a warrant for us, and 
carry us before three justices. 

Scrub. And to be sure we go, if we t^lk of eating j 


for the justices won't givt their own servants a bacf 

example. Now this Is my misfortune -I dare not 

speak in the house, while ti>at jade, Gipsey, dings 
about like a fury— — ^Once I had the better end of 
the staff. 

Archi And how comes the change novi' ? 

Scrub. Why, the mother of ail this mischief is a^ 

Arch. A priest ? 

Scrub, Ay, a darnii'd son of a whore of Babylon y 
that came over hither to say grace to the French offi- 
cers, and eat up our provisions ^There's not a 

day goes over his head withotrt a dinner or supper in 
this hGuse. 

Arck. How came he so familiar in the family ? 

Scrub, Because he speaks English as if he had liv'd 
here all his life, and tells lies as if he had been a tra- 
veller from his cradle. 

Arch, And this priest, I'm afraid, has converted 
the aiTeftions of your Gipsey. 

Scrub. Converted ! ay, and perverted, my dear" 
friend — for I'm afraid he has made her a whore and 
a papist—But this isnot all ; there's the French count 
and Mrs, Sullen, they're in confederacy, and for some 
private end of their own too, to be sure. 

Arcb. A very hopeful family, yourj, brother 
Scrub } I suppose the maiden lady has her lover too. 

Scrub. Not that I know — — She's the best on ''era, 
that's the truth on't -. but they take care to prevent 
my curiosity, by giving me so much business, that I 
E iij 


am a perfect slave :— What d'ye think is my place in 
this family ? 

Arch, Butler, I suppose. 

Scrub, Ah, Lord help your silly head !■— 111 tell 
you—Of a Monday I drive the coach ; of a Tuesday 
I drive the plough } en Wednesday I follovir the 
hounds ; on Thursday I dun the tenants ; on Friday 
I go to market ; en Saturday I draw warrants } and 
on Sunday I draw beer. 

Arch. Ha, ha, ha ; if variety be a pleasure in tife, 
you have enough on't, my dear brother—But what 
ladies are those ? 

Scrub, Ours, ours ; that upon the right hand is 

Mrs. Sullen, and the other Mrs. Dorinda Don^t 

mind 'em, sit still, man 

Enter Mrs. Sullen and Dorinda. 

Mrs. Sul. I have heard my brother talk of my lord 
Aim well, .but they say that his brother is the finer 
• Dor. That's impossible, sister. 

Mrs. Sul. He's vastly rich, andvcry close, they sr.y. 

Dor. No matter for that ; if I can creep into his 
heart, I'll open his breast, I warrant him : I have 
heard say, that people may be guessed at by the 
behaviour of their servants j I could wish we might 
talk to that fellow. 

Mrs. Sul. So do I ; for I think he's a very pretty 
fellov^; : come this way 5 111 throw cut a lure for him 


I'They nvalk a turn to the- opposite side of the stage. Mrs. 

Sullen drops her fan, Arciier runs, takes it up, and 

gives it td her. ^ , 

A7-ch. Corn, v/ine, and oil, indeed— But I think 

the wife h-ts the grearest plenty of flesh and blood j 

she should be my choice— Ay, ay, say you so — Ma> 

daui your ladyship's fon. 

Mrs. Sul. O. sir, I thank you What a hand- 

some bow the fellow made ! 

D-cr. Bow ! Why, I have knov.-n several f(X)tmen 
come down from London, set up here for dancings 
masters, and carry olf the best fortunes in the country . 
Arch, [aside.^i That projeft, for aught I know, had 
been better than ours— Brother Scrub, why don't you 
introduce me ? 

:^crji(?. Ladies, this is the strange's ser- 
vant that you savv- at church to-day ; I understood 
became from London, and so I invited him to the 
ceijar, that he might shew me the newest flourish in 
whetting my knives. 

Uor. And I hope you have made much of him ? 
Arch. O yes, madam; but the strength of your 
ladyship's liquor is a little too potent for the conati- 
tunon of your humble servant. 

Mrs. Sul. What, then you don't usually drink ale. 
Arch. No, madam, my constant drink is tea, or a 
little wine and water ; 'tis prescrib'd me by the pxhy- 
sichm, for a reraedy against the spleen. 

Scrub. O la : Ola ! — a footman have the spleen — 
Mi-s. Sul. I thought that distemper had been only 
proper to people of quality. 


Arch. Madam, like all other fashions, it wears 
out, and so descends to their servants ; tho' in a 
great many of" us, I believe it proceeds from some 
melancholy particles in the blood, occasioned by the 
stagnation of wages. 

Dor. How affe^edly the fellow talks 1— How long, 
pray, have you served your present master ? 

Arch. Not long ; my life has been mostly spent la 
the service of the ladies. 

Mrs. SuL And pray, which service do you like 

Arch. Madam, the ladies pay best ; the honour of 
serving them is sufficient wages ; tiiere is a charm 
in their looks that delivers a pleasure with their 
commands, and gives our duty the wings of inclina. 


Mrs. SuL That flight was above the pitch of a 
livery : and, sir, would you not be satisfied to serve 
a lady again ? 

Arch. As groom of the chambers, madam., but 
not as a footman. 

Mrs. Sill. I suppose you serv"d as footman before r 

Ai'ch. For thatreason I would not serve in that post 
again j for my memory is too weak for the load q^ 
messages that the ladies lay upon their servants hi 
London : my Lady Howd'ye, the last mistress I 
serv'd, call'd me up one morning, and told me, Mar- 
tin, go to my Lady Allnlght with my humble ser- 
vice i tell her I was to w?-it on her ladyship yesterday, 
and left word with Mrs. Rf.becca, that the preiimiiia^ 


ries of the affair she knows of are stopt till we know 

the concurrence of the person that I know of, for 

which there ai-e circumstances wanting which we 

shall accommodate at the old place j but that in the 

mean time there is a person about her ladyship, that 

from several hints and surmises, was accessary at a 

certain time to the disappointments that naturally 

attend things, that to her knowledge are of more 


Mrs. Sul. "1 TT L I u • • , 

V Ha, ha ! where are you gomg, sir ? 

Arch. Why, I ha'n't half done. 

Scrub. I should not remember a quarter of It. 

Arch. The whole, how d'ye, was about half an 
hour long j so happened to misplace two syllables, 
and was turned off, and rendered Incapable 

Dor. The pleasantest fellow, sister, I ever saw. — 
But, friend, if your master be married, — I presume 
you still serve a lady ? 

Arch. No, madam, I take care never to come into 
a married family, the commands of the master and: 
mistress are always so contrary, that 'tis impossible 
to please both. 

Dor. There's amain point gained. — My lord is not 
married, I find. [Asuk. 

Airs. Sul. But I wonder, friend, that in so many 
good services, you had not a better provision made 
for you ? 

Arch. I don't know how, madam 1 am very 

well as I am. 


Mrs. Sul. Something for a pair of gloves. 

{^Offering him mo:!ey. 

Arch. I humbly beg leave to be excused. My 
master, madam, pays me 5 nor dare I take money 
from any other hand, without injuring his honour, 
and disobeying his commands. \_Exit» 

Scrub. Brother Martin, brother Martin. 

Arch. What do you say, brother Scrub ? 

Scrub. Take the money, and give it to me. 

[^Exeunt Archer and Scrub. 

Dor. This is surprising. Did you ever see so pretty 
a well-bred fellow ? 

Mrs. Sul. The devil take him for wearing the 

Dor. I fancy, sister, he may be some gentleman, 
a friend of my lord's, that his lordship has pitched 
upon for his courage, fidelity, and discretion, to 
bear him company in this dress, and who, ten to 
one, v/as his second. 

Mrs. Sul. It is so, it must be so, and it shall be so 
— For I like him. 

Dor. What ! better than the count ? 

Mrs. Sul. The count happened to be. the most 
agreeable man upon the place ; and so I chose him to 
serve me in my design upon my husband — — But I 
should like this fellow better in a design upon myself. 

Dor. But now, sister, for an interview with this 
lord, and this gentleman ; how shall we bring that 
about ? 

Mrs. Sul. Patience ! you country ladies give no 


quarter, *« if once you be entered/-— Would you 
prevent their desires, and give the fellows no wishing 
time ?— Look'e, Dorinda, if my lord Aimwell loA^es 
you or deserves you, he'll find a way to see you, and 
there we must leave it— My business comes now 
upon the tapis- — H?.ve you prepared your brother ? 

Dor. Yes, yes. 

Ms. Sul. And how did he relish it? 

Dor. He said little, mumbled something to him- 
self, and promised to be guided by me— but here he 


E^:tcr Sullen, 
Sid. What singing was that I lieardjust now 

Mrs. Sul. The singing in your head, ray dear ; 
you complained of it ali day. 

Sul. You're impertinent. 

Mrs. Sul. I was ever so, since I became one flesh 
with you. 

Sul. One flesh ; rather two carcasses joined unnatu- 
rally together. 

Mrs. Sul. Or rather, a living soul coupled to a dead 

Dor. So, this is fine encouragement for me ! 
Sul. Yes, my wife shews what you must do. 
Mrs. Sul. And my husband shews you what you 
must suiTer. ; 

Sul. 'Sdeath ! why can't you be silent ? 
Mrs. Sul. "Sdeath ' why can't you talk ? 


Sul. Do you talk to any purpose r 

Mrs. Sul. Do you think to any purpose ? 

Sul. Sister, heark'e— [/r^?V/)^>v.] I shan^t be home 
till it be late. lExit, 

Mrs. Sul. What did he whisper to ye ? 

Dor. That he would go round the baqk way, come 
into the closet, and listen as I direfted him. — But let 
me beg once more, dear sister, to drop this project : 
for, as I told you before, instead of awaking him 
to kindness, you may provoke him to rage j and then 
who knows how far his brutality may carry him ? 

Mrs. Sul. I'm provided to receive him, I warrant 
ye. Away. 


Continues . Enter Do R i N d a , meeting Mrs .Sullen and 
Z,^^ Bountiful. 

News, dear sister, news, news ! 

Enter Archer running. 
Arch. Where, where is my lady Bountiful ?— Pray^ 
which is the old lady of you three ! 
L. Boun. lam. 

Arch. O, madam, the fame of your ladyship's cha-- 
rity, goodness, benevolence, skill, and ability, have- 
drawn me hither to implore your ladyship's help in 



behalf of my unfortunate master, who is this moment 
bi-eathing his last. 

Z. Boun, Your master! where is he ? 

Arch. At your gate, madam : drawn by the appear- 
ance of your handsome house to view it nearer, and 
walking up the avenue, he was taken ill of a sudden, 
with a sort of I know not what : but down he fell, 
and there he lies. 

L. Bonn. Here, Scrub, Gipsey, all run, get my 
easy-chair down stairs, put the gentleman in it, and 
bring him in quickly, quickly. 

Arch. Heaven will reward your ladyship for this 
charitable a6l. 

L. Boun. Is your master used to these fits ? 

Arch. O yes, madam, frequently. 1 have known 

him have five or six of a night. 

L. Boun. What's his name ? 

Arch. Lord, madam, he's a dying : a minute's care 
or negle61: may save or destroy his life. 

L. Boun. Ah, poor gentleman ! Come, friend, shew 
jne the way, I'll see him brought in myself. 

\^Exit nvith Archer. 

Dor. O, sister, my heart flutters about strangely, I 
can hardly forbear running to his assistance. 

Mrs. Sul. And I'll lay my life he deserves your as- 
sistance more than he wants it. Did not I tell you that 
my lord would find a way to come at you ? Love's his 
distemper, and you must be the physician 5 put on all 
your charms, summon all your iire into your eyes, 


plant the whole artillery of your looks against his 
breast, and down with him. 

lior. O, sister, I'm but a young gunner ; I shall be 
afraid to shoot, for fear the piece should recoil, and 
hurt myself. 

Mrs. SuL Never fear ; you shall see me shoot before 
you, if you will. 

Dor. No, no, dear sister, you have missed your 
mark so unfortunately, that I shan't care for being 
instru6led by you. 

Enter Aim well in a chair, carried by Archer and 

Scrub, Z^^' Bountiful, Gipseyj Aimwell 

counterfeiting a s-ivoon. 

L. Boun. Here, here, let\=! see the hartshorn drops 
---Gipsey, a glass of fair water, his fit's very strong 
—Bless me how his hands are clench'd 1 

Arch. For shame, ladies, what d'ye do ? Why 

don't you help us? Pray, madam, [TbDorinda.] 

take his hand, and open it, if you can, whilst I hold 
hi 3 head . [Dorinda takes his band. 

Dor. Poor gentleman !— Oh—he has got my hand 
within his, and squeezes it unmercifully 

L. Boun. 'Tis the violence of his convulsion, child. 

Arch. O, madam, he's perfe6tly possessed in these 
cases. — He'll bite you, if you don't have care. 

Dor. Oh, my hand ! my hand ! 

L. Bonn. What's the matter with the foolish girl ? 
I have got this hand open, you see, with a great deal 
€>i ease. 


Arch. Aye, but, madam, your daughter's hand is 
somewhat warmer than your ladyship's, and the heat 
of it draws the force of the spirits that w^y. 

Mrs. Sul. I find, friend, you're very learn'd in 
these sort of fits. 

Arch. 'Tis no wonder, madam, for I'm often trou- 
bled with them myself J I find myself extremely ill at 
this minute. [^Looking hard at Mrs. Sullen. 

Mrs. Sul. 'iAside.'] I fancy I could find a way to cure 

Z. Bonn. His fit holds him very long. 

Arch. Longer than usual, madam. 

L. Bonn. Where did his illness take him first, pray? 

Arch. To-day at church, madam. 

/., Bonn. In what manner was he taken ? 

Arch. Very strangely, my lady. He was of a sud- 
den touched with something in his eyes, which at the^ 
first he only felt, but could not tell whether 'twas pain 
or pleasure. 

L. Boun. Wind, nothing but wind. Your master 

should never go without a bottle to smell to Oh ! 

— he recovers—the lavender water — some feathers to 
burn under his nose— Hungarj^ water to rub his tem- 
ples— O, he comes to himself. Hem a little, sir, hem 

Gipsey, bring the cordial water. 

[ Aimwell seems to aivake in amaze. 

Dor. How do you, sir ? 

Aim. Wiiere am I ? [Rising. 

Sure I have pass'd the gulf of silent death. 
And now am landed on th' Elysian shore— 


Behold the goddess of those happy plams, 
Fair Proserpine— Let me adore thy bright divinity. 
[^K-neels to Dorinda, and kisses her hand. 

Mrs. Sul. So, so, so, I knew where the fit would end. 

Aim, Eurydice perhaps 

How could thy Orpheus keep his word, 

And not look back on thee ? 

No treasure but thyself could sure have brib-'d him 

To look one minute oif thee. 

L.Boun, Delirious, poor gentleman '. 

Arch. Very delirious, madam, very delirious. 

Aim. Martin's voice, I think. 

Arch. Yes, my lord. How does your lordship ? 

L. Boun. Lordl did you mind that, girls? 

Aim. Where am I ? 

Arch. In very good hands, sir. You were taken 

just now with one of your old fits, under the trees, 
just by this good lady's house j her ladyship had you 
taken in, and has miraculously brought you to your 
self, as you see — 

Aim. I am so confounded with shame, madam, 
that I can now only beg pardon— and refer my ac- 
knowledgments for your ladyship's care, till an 
opportunity offers of making some amends,— I dare 
to be no longer troublesome.— Martin, give two gau- 
neas to the servants. \_^Qing. 

Dor. Sir, you may catch cold by going r.o .^oon into 
the air; you don't look, sir, as if yoa were perfectly 

[Here Archer taiks to LaJy Bountiful in dumb skeiv. 



Aim. That I shall never be, madam ; niy present 
illness is so rooted, that I must expeft to carry it to 
my grave. 

L. Bonn. Come, sir, your servant has been telling 
rie that you're apt to relapse, if you go into the air — 
Your good manners sha'n't get the better of ours — 
You shall sit down again, sir — Come, sir, we don't 

mind ceremonies in the country Here, Gipsey, 

bring the cordial water — Here, sir, my service t'ye — 
You shall taste my water; 'tis a cordial, I can assure 
you, and of my own making. [Aimwell drinks.'] 
Drink it off, sir. — And how d'ye find yourself now, 

Aim. Somewhat better — tho' very/aint still. 

L. Bonn. Ay, ay, people are always faint after those 
fits. Come, girls, you shall shew the gentleman the 
house : 'tis but an old family building, sir ; but you 
had better walk about, and cool by degrees, than 
venture immediately into the air : — but you'll find 
some tolerable piftures. — Dorinda, shew the gentle- 
man the way. l^Exit.'] I m.ustgoto the poor woman 

Dor. This way, sir. 

Aim. Ladies, shall I beg leave for my servant to 
wait on you, for he understands pitftures very well. 

Mrs. Sid. Sir, we understand originals as well as he 
-does piftures, so he may come along. 

lExeiint Dorinda, Mrs, Sullen, Archer. Aimwell 
Uads Dorinda, 

F iij 


Enter Foigard and Scrub meeting. 

Fo'ig. Save you, master Scrub. 

Scrub. Sir, I won^t be sav'd your way— I hate a 

priest, I abhor the French, and I defy the devil. 

Sir, I am a bold Briton, and will spill the last drop 
of my blood to keep out popery and slavery. 

Foig. Master Scrub, you would put me down in 
politics, and so I would be speaking with Mrs. Gip- 

Scrub. Good Mr. Priest, you can't speak with her ; 
she's sick, sir j she's gone abroad, sir j she's — dead 
two months ago, sir. 

Enter Gtpsey. 

Gip. How now, impudence ! Kow dare you talk so 
saucily to the doftor ? Pray, sir, don't take it ill j for 
the common people of England are not so civil to 
strangers, as — 

Scrub. You lie, you lie— 'tis the coirmon people, 
such as you are, that are civilest to strangers. 

Gip. Sirrah, I have a good mind to — Get you out, 
I say. 

Scrub. I won't. 

Gip. You won't, sauce-box — Pray, doftor, what is 
the captain's name that came to your inn last night ? 

Scrub. The captain! ah, the devil ! there she ham- 
pers uxe again ; — the captain has me on one side, and 
the priest on t'other — So, between the govv^n and 
sword, I haveiine time on't. IGon.g. 


Gip. What, sirrah, won't you march ? 

Scrubs No, my dear, I won't march — but I'll walk : 

And I'll make bold to listen a little too. 

[Goes behmd the side scene y and listens, 

Gip. Indeed, do6lor, the count has been barba- 
rously treated, that's the truth on't. 

Foig. Ah, Mrs. Gipsey, upon my shoul, now, gra, 
his complainings would mollify the m.arrow in your 
bones, and move the bowels ot'your commiseration ; 
he weeps, and he dances, andhefistles, and he swears, 
and he laughs, and he stamps, and he sings ; in con- 
clusion, joy, he's afiiifted, a la Francois, and a stran- 
ger would not know whider to cry or to laugh with 

Gip. What would you have me do, doftor ? 

Foig. Noting, joy, but only hi4e the count in Mrs. 
SuUen's closet, when it is dark. 

Gip. Nothing ! Is that nothing ? It would be both 
a sin and a shame, do^or. 

Foig. Here are twenty louidores, joy, for your 
shame ; and I will give you an absolution for the shin. 

Gip. But won't that money look like a bribe ? 

Fcig. Dat is according as you shall tank it. — If yo-4 
receive the money before-hand, 'twill be, logice, a 
bribe : but if you stay till afterwards, 'twill be,^ only 
a gratification. 

Gip. Well, doftor, I'll take it logice. But what 

mu3t I do with my conscience, sir ? 

Fcig. Leave dat wid me, joy ; I am your priest^ 
gra j and your coascicace is under my hands. 


dp. But should I put the count into the closet — 

I'oig. Veil, is dere any shin for a man's being in a 
closliet ? One may go to prayers in a closhet. 

dp. But it tlie lady should come into her chamber, 
and go to bed ? 

Foig. Vellj and is dere any shin in going to-bed> 
joy > 

Gip. Ay but if the parties should meet, do6lor ? ' 

Foig. Vel den the parties must be responsible. 

—Do you begone after putting the count into the clo- 
shet ; and leave the shins wid themselves. 1 will 

come with the count to instruft you in yourcham.ber. 

Gip. Well, doclor, your religion is so pure — "Me- 
^^ thinks I'm so easy after an absolution, and can sin 
*' afresh with so much security," that Pm resolved to 
die a m^artyr to't — Here's the key of the garden door j 
come in the back way, when 'tis late — I'll be ready to 
receive you ; but don't so much as whisper, only take 
hold of my hand j I'll lead you, and do you lead the 
count, and follow me. [^Exeunt. 

filter Scrub. 

Sci'uh. What witchcraft now have these two imps of 
the devil been a batching here ? There's twenty Lewi- 
dores 5 1 heard that, and saw the purse : but I must 

give room to my betters. 

Enter Mrs. Sullen and Archer. 

Mrs. SuL Pray, sir, [7;? Archer.] how d'ye like that 
piece i 


Arch. O, 'tis Leda — Yon find, madam, how Jupiter 
came dlsguis'd to make love 

Mrs, Sul. Pray, sir, what head is that in the corner 
there ? 

Arch. O, madam, 'tis poor Ovid in his exile. 

Mrs. Sul. What was he banish'd for ? 

Arch. His ambitious love, madam. [_Bo'vjh:g.'\ His 
misfortune touches me. 

Mrs. Sul. Was he successfu lin his amours ? 

Arch. There he has left us in the dark — —He was 
too much a gentleman to tell. 

Mrs. Sul. If he were secret I pity him. 

Arch. If he were successful, I en\y him. 

Mrs. Sul. How d'ye like that Venus over the chim- 

Arch. Venus! I protest, madam, I tookitforyour 
picture j but, now I look again, 'tis not handsome 

Mrs. Sul. Oh, what a charm is flattery ! If you 
would see my pifture, there it is, over the cabinet — 
How d'ye like it ? 

Arch. I must admire anything, madam, that has 
the least resemblance of you — but, methinks, ma- 
dam — \_He locks at the piSiure and Mrs. Sullen, three or 
four times by turns.l Pray, madam, who drew it ? 

Mrs. Sul. A famous hand, sir. 

[_Here Aim well a?id Dorinda go of. 

Arch. A famous hand, madam ! — Your eyes, in- 
deed, are featured here j but where 's the sparkling 
moisture, shining fluid, in which they swim ? The 
piilure, indeed, has your dimples ; but whete's the 


S'.varm of killing Cupids that should ambush there ? 
llie lips too are figured out ; but whereas the carna- 
tion dew, the pouting ripeness, that tempts the taste 
in the origin?.!'? 

Mrs. Sill. Had it been my lot to have matched with 
such a man ! \ Aside. 

Arch. Your breasts too, presumptuous man ! what I 
paint Heaven ! A-propos, madam, in the very next 
pifturc is Salmoneus, that was struck dead with light- 
ning, for offering to imitate Jove's thunder \ I hope 
you serv'd the painter so, madam. 

Mrs. Sul. Had my eyes the power of thunder, they 
should employ their lightning better. 

Arch. There's the finest bed in that room, madamj 
I suppose 'tis your ladyship's bed-chamber. 
Mrs. Sul. And what then, sir. 
Arch. I think the quilt is the richest that I ever 
saw — I can't at this distance, madam, distinguish the 
figures of the embroidery. Will you give me leave, . 
madam ? 

Mrs. Sul. The devil take his impudence — Sure, 
if I gave him an opportunity, he durst not be rude. 

I have a great mind to try '■ — [Goi/ig, returm.'] 

'Sdeath what am I doing ! — And alone too ! — Sister, 

Arch. r\\ follow her close 

For <T.vhere a Frenchman durst attempt to storm, 
A 'Enton. su}-e the -vjork 7nay ^xi-ell perform. [Going* 

E/iter Scrub. 
■ Scrub. Martin ! Brother Martin '. 


Arch. O brother Scrub, I beg your pardon, I was 
not a-going: here's a guinea my master order'd you. 

Scrub. A guinea! hi, hi, hi, a guinea ! eh by 

this light it is a guinea : but I suppose you expca 
twenty shillings in change. 

Arch. Not at all j I have another for Gipsey. 

Scrub. A guinea for her ! Fire and faggot 'for the 

witch Sir, give me that guinea j and Til discover 

a plot. 

Arch. A plot ! 

Scrub. Ay, sir, a plot, a horrid plot-First, it mu^*- 
be a plot, because there's a woman in't : secondly, it 
must be a plot, because there's a priest in't • thirdly 
It must be a plot, because there's French gold in't 
and fourthly, it must be a plot, because I don't know 
what to make on't. 

Arch. Nor any body else, -I'm afraid, brother 

Scrub. Truly I'm afraid so too ; for where there's 
a priest and a woman, there's always a mystery, 'and 

a riddle This I know, that here has been the 

doctor with a temptation in one hand, and an abso- 
lution in the other, and Gipsey has sold herself to 
the devil i I saw the price paid down j my eyes shall 
take their oath on't. 

Arch. And is all this bustle about Gipsey > 

Scrub. That's not all; I could hear but a wo'-d 
here and there ; but Tremember they mentioned ^ 
count, a closet, a back-door, and a key. 

Arch. The count! did you hearnothing of Mi^, 
Sullen. ^ 


Scrub I did hear some word that sounded that 
^vay : but M^hether it was Sullen or Dorinda, I could 
not distinguish, , . u 

Arch. You have told this matter to nobody, bro- 

^ ^Scrub. Toldl No, sir, I thank you for that ; I'm 
resolv'd never to speak one word, pro nor con, till we 

have a peace. , tt . 

Arch. YouYe i'th' right, brother Scrub. Here s a 
treaty a-foot between the count and the lady —The 
priest and the chamber-maid are plenipotentiaries .-- 
It shall go hard but Pll find a way to be included m 
the treatv. Whereas the doclor now ? 

Scruh^Vi^ and Gipsey are this moment devouring 
my lady's marmalade in the closet. 

Aim. iFromnvithout.'] Martin, Martm I 

Arch. I come, sir, I come. 

Scrub. But you forgot the other guinea, brother 


Arch. Here, I give it with all my heart. 

Scrub And I take it with all my soul. iExeunt se- 
verally.-] I'cod, ril spoil your plotting, Mrs Gipsey. 
and if you should set the captain upon me, ^^ese^wo 
guineas will buy me off. \_'xi . 

Enter Mrs. Sullen and Dorinda, meeting, 

J/trs. Sul. Well, sister* 

Dor. And well, sister. 

}/lrs. Sul. What's become of my lord? 

Lor. What's become of his sei-vant? 


Mrs. Sul. Servant ! He's a prettier fellow, and a 
finer gentleman, by fifty degrees, than his master. 

Dor. O my conscience, I fancy you could beg that 
fellow at the gallows foot. 

Mrs. Sul. O my conscience, I could, provided I 
could put a friend of yours in his room. 

Dor. You desir'd me, sister, to leave you, when you 
transgressed the bounds of honour. 

Mrs. Sul. Thou dear censorious country girl — what 
dost mean ? You can't think of the man without the 
bedfellow, I find. 

Dor. I don't find any thing unnatural in that 
thought j while the mind is conversant with flesh and 
blood, it must conform to the humours of the com* 

Mrs. Sul. How a little love and conversation im- 
prove a woman ! Why, child, you begin to live -^ 

You never spoke before. 

Dor. ■ Because I was never spoke to before : my lord 
has told me that I have more wit and beauty than 
any of my sex j and truly I begin to think the man 
is sincere. 

Mrs. Sul. You're in the right, Dorinda j pride is the 
life of a woman, and flattery is our daily bread. But 
I'll lay you a guinea that I had finer things said to me 
than you had. 

Dor. Done. — What did your fellow say to ye ? 
Mrs. Sul. My fellow took the pidlure of Venus for 
Dor^ But my lover took me for Venus herself. 


Mrs. Sul. Common cant ! Had my spark call'd me a 
Venus directly, I should have believed him to be a 
footman in good earnest. 

Dor. But my lover was upon his knees to me. 

Mrs, Sul. And mine was upon his tiptoes to me. 

Dor. Mine vow'd to die for me. 

Mrs. Sul. Mine swore to die with me. 

Dor. Mine kiss'd my hand ten thousand times. 

Mrs. Sul. Mine has all that pleasure to come. 

Dor, Mine spoke the softest moving things. 

Mrs. Sul. Mi.^e had his moving things too. 

Dor. Mine offered marriage . 

Mrs. Sul. O Lard ! D'ye call that a moving thing ? 

Dor, The sharpest arrow in his quiver, my dear 
sister : — Why, my twenty thousand pounds may lie 
brooding here these seven years, and hatch nothing at 
last but some ilLnatur'd clown like yours : — whereas, 
if I marry m.y lord Aimwcll, there will be title, place, 
and precedence, the park, the play, and the drawing- 
rooni, splendour, equipage, noise, and flambeaux— 
Iley, my lady Aimwell's servant there — Lights, 
lights, to the stairs — My lady Aimwell's coach, put 
forward — Stand by 5 make room for her ladyship — 
Are not these things movmg ? What, melancholy of 
a sudden ! 

Mrs. Sul. Happy, happy sister ! Your angel has 
been watchful for your happiness, whilst mine has 
;,lept regardless of his charge — Long smiling years of 
circling joys for you j but not one hour for me ! 


Dor. Come, my dear, we'll talk on something else. 

Mrs. Sul. O Dorinda, I own myself a woman, full 
of my sex, a gentle, generous soul, — " easy and yield- 
" ing to soft desires } a spacious heart, where love 
*^ and all his train might lodge :" And must the fair 
apartment of my breast be made a stable for a brute 
to lie in ? 

Dor. Meaning your husband, I suppose. 

Mrs. Sul. Husband ! No — Even husband Is too 
soft a name for him — But come, I expeft my brother 
here to-night or to-morrow : he was abroad when 
my father marry'd me } perhaps he'll find a way to 
make me easy. 

Dor. Will you promise not to make yourself easy 
in the mean time with my lord's friend ? 

Mrs. Sul. You mistake me, sister — It happens with 
us as among the men, the greatest talkers are the 
greatest cowards : and there's a reason for it j those 
spirits evaporate in prattle, which might do more mis- 
chief if they took another course — Though, to con- 
fess the truth, I do love that fellow j and if I met 

him drest as he should be, and I undrest as I should 

be Look'e, sister, I have no supernatural gifts ; 

1 can't swear I could resist the temptation 

though I can safely promise to avoid it j and that's as 
much as the best of us can do. [Exeunt, 

Enter Aim well and Archer laughing. 
Arch. And the aukward kindness of the good mo- 
therly old gentlewoman, 

G ij 


Aiw. And the coming easiness of the young one.— . 
*3death, 'tis a pity to deceive her. 

Arck, Nay, if you adhere^to those principles, stop 
v/here )''ou are. 

Aim. I can't stop, for I love her to distraftion. 

Arch. 'Sdeath, if you love her a hair's breadth be- 
yond discretion, you must go no farther. 

Aim. Well, well, any thing to deliver us from 
sauntering away our idle evenings at White's, Tom's, 
or Will's, " and be stinted to bare looking at our old 
** acquaintance, the cards, because our impotent 
** pockets can't afford us a guinea for the mercenary 
*' drabs j and ten thousand such rascally tricks 
" had we out-liv'd our fortunes among our acquaint- 
** ance" But now 

Arch, Aye, now is the time to prevent all this.— 
Strike while the iron is hot. — This priest is the 
luckiest part of our adventure j he shall marry you, 
and pimp for me. 

*' Aim. But I should not like a woman that can be 
** so fond of a Frenchman. 

** Arch. Alas, sir, necessity has no law ; the lady 
** may be in distress." But if the plot lies as I sus- 

pe6l — I must put on the gentleman. But here 

comes the doftor. I shall be ready. \_Exit^ 

Enter Foigard. 

Foig. Save you, noble friend. 

AifH. O sir, your servant. Pray, doftor, may I 
crave your name ? 


Foig. Fat naam is upon me ? My naam is Foigard, 


Aim. Foigard ? a very good name for a clergyman. 
Pray, doftor Foigard, were you ever in Ireland ? 

Foig. Ireland ? no, joy. Fat sort of plaace is dat 
saam Ireland ? Dey say, de people are catch'd dere 
when dey are young. 

Aim. And some of 'em here, when they are old — 
as for example — {Takes Foigard by the shoulder.'] Sir, 
I arrest you as a traitor against the government ; 
you're a subjeft of England, and this morning shew- 
ed me a commission, by which you served as chap- 
lain in the French army. This is death by our law, 
and your reverence must hang for it. 

Foig. Upon my shoul, noble friend, dis is strange 
news you tell me ; fader Foigard a subjeft of Eng - 
land ! the son of a burgomaster of Brussels a subjeft 
of England! Ubooboo. 

Aim. The son of a bog-trotter in Ireland I sir, 
your tongue will condemn you before any bench ia 
the kingdom.. 

Foig. And is my tongue all your evidensh, joy ? 

Aim. That's enough . 

Foig. No, no, joy, for I will never speak English 
no more. 

Ann. Sir, I have other evidence.— —Here, Mar- 
tin, you know this fellow. 



Enter Archek. 

Arch. [In a brogue.'] Saave you, ray dear cussen, 
how does your health ? 

Fcig. Ah ! upon my shoul dere is my countryman, 
and his brogue will hang mine. lAsUe.] Mynkere, 
Ick nvet neat njoatt hey %acht, Ick Uni-uerston enx:e neatt 

Aim. Altering your language won't doj sir j this 
fellow knows your person, and will swear to your 

Foig. Faash ! Fey, is dere brogue upon my faash 
too ? 

Arch. Upon my soulvation dere Ish, joy Buf, 

x:ussen Mackshane, vil you not put a remembrance 
upon m.e ? 

Foig. Mackshane ! by St. Paatrick, dat is my 
naame shure enough. [Aside. 

Aim. I fancy, Archer, you have it. 

Foig. The devil hang you, joy By fat acquaint- 
ance are you my cussen ? 

Arch. O, de devil hang yourshelf, joy j you know 
we were little boys togeder upon de school, and your 
foster-moder's son was marry'd upon my nurse's 
shister, joy, and so we are Irish cussens. 

Foig. De devil take de relation ♦. Vel joy, and fat 
school was it ? 

Arch. I think it was — Aay — 'twas Tipperary. 

Foig. NoW, upon my shoul, joy, it was Kilkenny. 

Aim. That's enough for us — Self-confession-^— 


Come, sir, we must deliver you into the hands of the 
next magistrate. 

Arch. He sends you to gaol, you're try'd next as- 
sizes, and away you go swing into purgatory. 

Foig. And is it so wid you, cussen ? 

Arch. It vil be so vid you, cussen, if you don't im- 
mediately confess the secret between you and Mrs. 

Gipsey Look'e, sir, the gallows or the secret, 

take your choice. 

foig. The gallows ! Upon my shoul I hate that 
shame gallows, for it is a diseashe dat is fatal to our 
family — Vel, den, there is noting, shentlemens, but 
Mrs. Sullen wou d speak wid de count in her cham- 
ber at midnight, and dere is no harm, joy, for I am 
to conduft the count to de plaash myself. 

Arch. As I guess'd Have you communicated 

the matter to the count ? 

Toig. I have not sheen him since. 

Arch. Right agen ; why then, dofl:or, — you shall 
conduft me to the lady instead of the count. 

Toig. Fat, my cussen to the lady ! Upon my shoul* 
gra, dat's too much upon the brogue. 

Arch. Come, come, do6lor, consider we have got 
a rope about your neck, and if you offer to squeuk, 
we'll stop your wind-pipe, most certainly 5 we shall 
have another job for you in a day or two, I hope. 

Avn. Here's company coming this way j let's into 
my chamber, and there concert our affairs fai'ther. 

Arch. Come, my dear cussen, come idong. 

Foig, Arrwa, the devil taake our relashion, \ExeunU 


Enter Bo'SiF ACE f Hounslow, <?«^Bagshot, atone 
door J Gibbet at the opposite. 

Gib. Well, gentlemen, 'tis a fine night for our en- 

Houns. Dark as hell. 

Bag. And blows like the devil ; our landlord here 
has shew'd us the window where we must break in, 
and tells us the plate stands in the wainscot cupboard 
in the parlour. 

Bon. Ay, ay, Mr. Bagshot, as the saying is, knives 
and forks, cups and cans, tumblers and tankards 

—There's one tankard, as the saying is, that's near 

upon as big as me ; it was a present to the squire 
from his god-mother, and smells of nutmeg and 
toast like an East-India ship. 

Houns. Then you say we must divide at the stair 

Bon. Yes, Mr. Hounslow, as the saying is At 

one end of the gallery lies my lady Bountiful and 
her daughter ; and, at the other, Mrs. Sullen — As 
for the 'squire 

Gib. He's safe enough, I have fairly enter'd him, 

and he's more than half seas over already But 

such a parcel of scoundrels are got about him there, 
that, Igad, I was asham'd to be seen in their company. 

Bon. 'Tis now twelve, as the saying is — Gentle-^ 
men, you must set out at one. 

Gib. Hounslow, do you and Bagshot see our arms 
fix'd, and I'll come to yoi^ presently. 


Houns. and Bag. We will. [Excmt. 

Gib. Well, my dear Bonny, you assure me that 
Scrub is a coward. 

£o». A chicken, as the saying is You'll have no 

creature to deal with but the ladies. 

Gib. And I can assure you, friend, there's a great 
deal of address and good manners in robbing a lady j 
I am the most a gentleman that way that ever travel- 
led the road — But, my dear Bonny, this prize will 

be a galleon, a Vigo business 1 warrant you we 

shall bring oiF three or four thousand pound. 

Bon. In plate, jewels, and money, as the saying is, 
you may. 

Gib. Why then, Tyburn, I defy thee ; lil get up 
to town, sell oif my horse and arms, buy myself some 
pretty employment in the law, and be as snug and as 
honest as e'er a long gown of 'em all. 

Bofi. And what thhik you then of my daughter 
Cherry for a wife ? 

Gib. Look'e my dear Bonny — Cherry is the god- 
dess I adore, as the song goes j but it is a maxim, 
that man and wife should never have it in their power 
to hang one another j for if they should, the Lord 
have mercy upon them both. [Exeunt, 



Continues. Knocking ^without. Enter Boniface, 


Coming, coming A coach and six foaming 

horses at this time o'night ! Some great man, as the 
saying is, for he scorns to travel with other people, 

£«/^r 5'ir Charles Freeman. 

Sir Ch. What, fellow 1 a public house, and a-bed 
when other people sleep ! 

Bon. Sir, I an't a-bed, as the saying is. 

SirCh. I see that, as the saying is! Is Mr. Sul- 
len's family a-bed, think'e? 

Bon. All but the 'squire himself, sir, as the saying 
is i he's in the house. 

Sir. Ch. What company has he ? 

Bon. Why, sir, there's the constable, Mr. Gage the 
exciseman, the hunch^back'd barber, and two or three 
other gentlemen. 

Sir Ch. I find my sister's letters gave me the true 
pifture of her spouse. 

J?«/fr Sullen, drunk. 

Bon. Sir, here's the 'squire. 

Sul. The puppies left me asleep— sir. 

Sir Ch. Well, sir. 


Sul. Sir, I am an unfortunate man— I have three 
thousand pounds a year, andcan'tget amantodrink 
a cup of ale with me. 
SirCh. That's very hard. 

Sul. Ay, sir— And unless you have pity upon me, 
and smoke one pipe with me, I must e'en go home to 
my wife, and I had rather go to the devil by half. 
Sir Ch. But I presume, sir, you won't see your 

wife to night, she'll be gone to bed you don't use 

to he with your wife in that pickle ? 

Sul. What! not lie with my wife! Why, sir, do you 
take me for an atheist or a rake ? 
^ Sir Ch. If you hate her, sir, I think you had better 
lie from her. 

Sul. I think so too, friend But I am a justice 

of peace, and must do nothing against the law. 

SirCh. Law! As I take it, Mr. Justice, nobody ob- 
serves law for law's sake, only for the good of those 
for whom it was made. 

Sul. But if the law orders me to send you to gaol, 
you must lie there, my friend. 

Sir Ch. Not unless I commit a crime to deserve it, 
Sul. A crime? Oons, an 't I married? 
Sir Ch. Nay, sir, if you call marriage a crime, you 
must disown it for a law. 

Sul. Eh !— I must be acquainted with you, sir - 

But, sir, I should be very glad to know the truth of 
this matter. 

SirCh. Truth, sir, is a profound sea, and few there 
be that dare wade deep enough to find the bottom 


on^t. Besides, sir, I'm afraid the line of your under- 
standing may'nt be long enough. 

SuL Look'e, sir, I have nothing to say to your 
sea of truth, but if a good parcel of land canentitlea 
man to a little truth, I have as much as any he in the 

Bon. I never heard your worship, as the saying is, 
talk so much before. 

Sul. Because I never met with a man that I lik'd 

Bon. Pray, sir, as the saying is, let me ask you one 
question : Are not man and wife one flesh ? 

Sir Ch. You and your wife, Mr. Guts, may be 
one flesh, because you are nothing else— But rational 
creatures have minds that must be united. 
Sul. Minds! 

Sir Ch. Ay, minds, sir. Don't you think that the 
mind takes place of the body ? 
Sul. In some people. 

Sir Ch. Then the interest of the master must be 
_ consulted before that of the servant. 

Sul. Sir, you shall dine with me to-morrow • 

Oons, I always thought we were naturally one. 

Sir Ch. Sir, I know that my two hands are natu- 
rally one, because they love one another, " kiss one 
'< another," help one another in all aftions of life ; 
but I could not say so much if they were always at^ 

Sul. Then 'tis plain that we are two. 

Sir Ch. Why don't you part with her, sir? 


Sul. Will yoti take her, sir ? 
Sir Ch, Witb all my heart. 

Sul. You sluill have her to-morrow morning, and 
a venison pasty into the bargain. 

Sir Ch, YouMl let me have her fortune too ? 

SuL Fortumi I why, sir, I have no quarrel to her 

fortune 1 hate only the woman, sir, and none 

but the woman shall go. 

Sir Ch. But her fortune, sir 

SuL Can you play at whist, sir ? 
Sir Ch. No, truly, sir. 
Sul. Not at all-fours ? 
Sir Ch. Neither. 

Sul. Oons I \yhere was this man bred ? {Aside.'] Burn 
me, sir, I can't go home, 'tis but two o'clock. 

Sir Ch. For half an hour, sir, if you please— But 
you must consider 'tis late. 

Sul. Late! that's the reason I can't go to bed 

Come, sir 

Enter Cherry, runs across the stagey and hiocks at 

AiMWELL'j chamber door. Enter Aim WELL, in his 

night-cap andgO'iKin. 

Aim. What's the matter ? You tremble, child ; 
you're frighted ! 

Cher. No wonder, sir— But in short, sir, this very 
minute a gang of rogues are gone to rob my lady 
.jSountiful's' house. 

Aim» Howl 



Cher. I dogg'd 'em to the veiy door, and left 'em 
breaking in. 

Aim. Have you alarm'd any body else with the 

Cher. No, no, sir; I wanted to have discovered 
the whole plot, and twenty other things, to your mrn 
Martin ; but I have searched the whole house, and 
can't find him j where is he ? 

Aim. No matter, child j will you guide me imme- 
diately to V.z house ? 

Cher. With all my heart, sir ; my lady Bounti- 
ful is my godmother, and I love Mrs. Dorinda so 

Aim. Dorinda ! the name inspires me ; the glory 
and the danger shall be all my own. — Come, my life, 
let me but get my sword. \Exeunt. 


Changes to the bed-chamber in Lady BountifulV house. 
Enter Mrs. Sullen, and Dorinda, undress'' d\ a 
table ajid lights. 

Dor. 'Tis very late, sister; no news of your 
spouse, yet ? 

Mrs. Std. No, T'm condemned to be alone till to- 
wards four, and then, perhaps, I may be executed 
with his company. 


Dor. Well, ray dear, I'll leave you to your rest j 
you'll go direftly to bed, I suppose. 

Mrs. Sul. I don't know what to do j hey-ho ! 

Dor. That's a desiring sigh, sister. 

Mrs. Sul. This is a languishing hour, sister. 

Dor. And might prove a critical minute, if the 
pretty fellow were here. 

Mrs. Sul. Here ! what in my bed-chamber, at two 
o'clock i'th' morning, I undress'd, the family asleep, 
my hated husband abroad, and my lovely fellow at 
my feet O gad, sister. 

Dor. Thoughts are free, sister, and them I allow 
you. So, my dear, good night. [^Exii, 

Mrs. Sul. A good rest to my dear Dorinda 

Thoughts are free ! are they so ? Why then, suppose 
him here, dress'd like a youthful, gay, and burning 
bridegroom, [Here Archer steals out of the closet.'] 
with tongue enchanting, eyes bewitching, knees 
imploring — [Turns a little on one side^ and sees Archer 
in the posture she describes.'] Ah 1 [Shrieks^ ayid runs 
to the other side of the stage.] Have my thoughts 

rais'd a spirit ? What are you, sir, a man or a 

devil ? 

Arch. A man, a man, madam. {Rising. 

Mrs. Sul. How shall I be sure of it ? 

Arch. Madam, I'll give you demonstration this 
minute. [Takes her hand, 

Mrs. Sul. What, sir, do you intend to be rude ? 

Arch. Yes, madam, if you please. 

Mrs, Sul. In the name of wonder, whence came ye ? 


Arch. From the skies, madam— —I'm Jupiter ia 
love, and you shall be my Alcmenii, 

Mrs. Sul. How came you in ? 

Arch. I flew in at the window, madam ; your cousin 
Cupid lent me his wings, and your sisterVenus opened 
the casement. 

Mrs. Sul. I'm struck dumb with admimtion. 

Arch. And I with wonder. [_Loohs fassionately at her.l^ 
How beautiful she looks ! the teeming jolly- 
spring smiles in her blooming fav:e, and when she 
was conceived her mother smelt to roses, look'd on 

Lilies unfold their white , their fra^^r ant charms^ 
When the njoarm sun thus darts inti'i their arms. 

[Runs to her, 

Mrs. Sul. Ah! \_Shrieks.'^ 

Arch. Oons, madam, what do yoii mean ? You'll 
raise the house. 

Mrs. Sul. Sir, I'll wake the dead before I'll bear 

this. What! approach me with the freedom of 

a keeper. Pm glad on't. Yout impudence 

has cur'd me. 

Arch. If this be impudence, {Kneels.'] I leave to 
your partial self j no panting pilgrim, aft er a te>dious, 
painful voyage, e'er bow'd before his saint with more 

Mrs. Sul. Now, now, I'm ruin'd if he kneels. 
{^Aside.'] Rise, thou prostrate engineer, not all thy 
Vindermining skill shall reach my heart. Rise, a,nd 


know I am a woman without my sex j I can love to 

the tenderness of wishes, sighs, and tears But gcJ 

no farther — Still to convince you that I'm more than, I can speak my frailty, confess my weakness, 
everx for you But 

Arch. For me ! [Going to lay hold on her* 

Mrs. Sul. Hold, sir, build not upon that for 

my most mortal hatred follows, if you disobey what 

I command you now leave me this minute 

If he denies I'm lost, [Asiik,. 

Arch. Then you'll premise 

Mrs. Sul. Any thing another time. 

Arch. When shall I come ? 

Mrs. Sul. To-morrow ; when you will. 

Arch. Your lips must seal the promise. 

Mrs. Sul. Pshaw ! 

Arch. They must, they must. [Kisses her."] Rap- 
tures and paradise ! And why not now, my angel > 
'The time, the place, silence and secrecy all conspire 
— And now the conscious stars have pre-ordain'd this 
moment for my happiness. [Takes her in his arms, 

Mrs. Sul. You will not, cannot, sure. 

Arch. If the sun rides fast, and disappoints not 
mortals of to-morrow's dawn, this night shall crown 
my joys. 

Mrs. Sul. You shall kill me first. 

Arch. I'll die with you. [Carrying her off, 

Mrs. Sul. Thieves, thieves, murder 

Enter ScruBj in his breeches , and one shoe, 

Sirub. Thieves, thieves, murder, popery ' 
H iij 


Arch. Ha ! the very timorous stag will k'Jll in rut- 
ting time. [^Dra'ivs and offers to s^ab Sci^ub, 

Scrub. [^KneelingS] O pray, sir, spare ail I have, 
and take my life. 

Mrs. Sul. [Holding ArchQr" s hand.] What doer. th« 
fellow mean ? 

Scrub. O madam, down upon your knees, yiDwr 
rnarrow bones he's one of them. 

Mrs. Sul. Of whom ? 

Scrub. One of the rogues 1 beg your pardoji» 

one of tiie honest gentlemen that just now are brojie 
into the house. 

Arch. How! 

Mrs. Sul. I hope you did not come to rob me ? 

Arch. Indeed I did, madam j but I would have 
-taken nothing but what you might very well ha" 
spared ; but your crying thieves has wak'd this dream- 
ing fool, and so he takes 'em for granted. 

Scrub. Granted ! 'tis granted, sir j take all we have. 

Mrs. Sul. The fellow looks as if he were broke out 
of Bedlam. 

Scrub. Oons, madam, they're broke into the house 
with lire and sword j I saw them, heard them, they'll 
be here this minute. 

Arch. What, thieves ! 

Scrub. Under favour, sitj I think so. 

Mrs. Sul. What shall we do, sir ? 

Arch. Madim, I wish your ladyship a good night. 

Mrs. Sul, Will you leave me ? 

Arch. Leave you ! Xord, madam, did you not com- 


mand me to be gone just now, upon pain of your im- 
mortal hatred ? 

Mrs. Sttl. Nay, but pray, sir — [Takes hold of htm. 

Arch. Ha, ha, ha, now comes my turn to be ra- 
vished — You see, madam, you must use men one way 
or another j but take this by the way, good madam, 
that none but a fool will give you the benefit of his 
courage, unless you'll take his love along with it 
How are they arm'd, friend ? 

Scrub. With sword and pistol, sir. 

Arch. Hush ! — 1 see a dark lanthorn coming thro* 

the gallery Madam, be assured I will proteft you, 

or lose my life. 

Mrs. Sill. Your life ! No, sir, they can rob me of 
nothing that I value half so much j therefore, now, 
sir, let me intreat you to be gone. 

Arch. No, madam, TU consult my own safety for 
the sake of yours } I'll work by stratagem. Have you 
courage enough to stand the appearance of them ? 

Mrs. Sill. Yes, yes, since I have scap'd your hands 
I can face any thing. 

Arch. Come hither, brother Scrub ; don't you 
know me ? 

Scrub. Eh ? my dear brother, let me kiss thee. 

[Kisses x^^rcher. 

Arch. This way Here — < — 

[Archer a/U Scrub hUe behind the bed. 
Enter Gibbet t'jith a dark lauthcrn in Q7ie ha?idf and a 
pistol in the other. 

Cih\ Ay, ay, this is tiie charaber and th*Udy alone, 

9» BEAUX strata&eM. A^ V\ 

Mrs. Sul. Who are you, sir ? What would you 
have ? D'ye come to rob me ? 

Gib. Rob you ! Alack-a-dayj madam, I'm only a 
younger brother, madam. 5 and so, madam, if you 
make a noise, I'll shoot you through the head. But 
don't be afraid, madam. \_Laywg his lanthorn a?id pis- 
tol upon the table.'] These rings, madam 5 don't be 
concerned, madam 5 I have a profound respect for 
you, madam j your keys, madam ; don't be frighted, 

madam, I'm the most of a {^Searching 

her pockets.] This necklace, madam.; I never v.-as 

rude to any lady ! 1 have a veneration— for this 

necklace \_Here Archer ha'vi?ig come round., and 

seized the pistol, takes Gibbet by the collar, trips up his 
heels, and claps the pistol to his breast. 

Arch. Hold, profane villain, and take the reward 
of thy sacrilege. 

Gib. Oh ! pray, sir, don't kill me ; I an't prepared* 

Arch. How many are there of 'em. Scrub ? 

Scrub. Five and forty, sir. 

.'^ch. Then I must kill the villain^ to have hnn out 
of the way. 

Gib. Hold! held! sir! we are but three, upon my 

Arch. Scrub, will you undertake to secure him? 

Scrub. Not I, sir, kill him, kill him. 

Arch. Run to Gipsey's chamber, there you'll find 
the do<5lorj bring him hither presently. 

\_Exit ^crVih, r::?inin7. 
Come, rogue, if you have a short prayer, say it. 


Gib. Sir, I have no prayer at all j the government 
has provided a chaplain to say prayers for us on these 

Mrs. Sul. Pray, sir, don't kill him — —you fright 
me as much as him. 

Arch. The dog shall die, madam, for being the oc- 
casion of my disappointment — Sirrah, this moment is^ 
your last. 

Gih. Sir, I'll give you two hundred pounds to spare 
my life. 

Arch. Have you no more, rascal? 

Gib. Yes, sir, I can command four hundred j but 
I must reserve two of 'em to save my life at the 

Enter Scrub and Foigard. 

Arch. Here, dodlor ; I suppose Scrub and you be- 
tween you, may manage him — Lay hold of him. 

[Foigard /ry'j /'i?/<:/o/ Gibbet^ 

Gib. What ? tum'd over to the priest already - ■ 
Look'e, do6lor, you come before your time j I an't 
condemned yet, I thank ye. 

Foig. Come, my dear joy, I vil secure your body 
and your shoul too ; I vil make you a good Catholic, 
and give you an absolution. 

Gib. Absolution I Can you procure me a pardon, 
dcftor ? 

Foig. No, joy. 

Gib. Then you and your absolution may go to the 
devil . 


Arch. Convey him into the cellar ? there bind him : 

take the pistol, and, if he offers to resist, shoot 

him thro' the head — and comeback to us with all the 
speed you can. 

Scrub. Ay, ay; come, do(5tor, do you hold him 
fast, and 111 guard him. {Exeunt, 

Mrs. Sul. But how came the doctor ? 

Arch. In short, madam — \_Shrieking ivithout.'] 
'Sdeath ! the rogues are at work, with the other la- 
dies ; — " I'm vex'd I parted "with the pistol ;" but I 
must fly to their assistance — Will you stay here, ma- 
dam, or venture yourself with me ? 

Mrs. Sul. Oh, dear sir, with you. 

{Takes him by the arm and exeunt. 


Changes to another apartment in the house. Enter Ho UN- 
SLOW dragging in Lady Bountiful, and Bag- 
shot hauling in DORINDA J the rogues 'with snjjcrds 

Houn. Come, come, your jewels, mistress. 
Bag. Your keys, your keys, old gentlewoman. 

Enter Aimwell. 

Aim. Turn this way, villains ! I durst engage an 
army in such a cause. {He engages tbe?n both. 


Enter Archer and Mrs. Sullen. 


Arch. Hold, hold, my lord ; every man his bird, 
pray. {T^hey e?igage mat: to mati-^ the rogues arc 

throrvn and disarmed. 

Arch. Shall we kill the rogues ? 

Jii,-n. No, no, well bind them. 

Arck. Ay, ay } here, madam, lend me your garter ? 
\_ToMrs. Sullen, w/;o stands by him. 

Mrs. Sul. The devil's in this fellow 3 he fights^ 
loves, and banters, all in a breath. Here's a cord, 
that the rogues brought with them, I suppose. 

Arch. Right, right, the rogue's destiny, a rope to himself— Come, my lord,— this is but a scanda- 
lous sort of an office. [Binding the rogms together.'] If 
cur adventures should end in this sort of hangman 
v/crk : but I hope there is something in prcspea that— 

Enter Scrub. 
Wth, Scrub, have you secured your Tartar? 

Scrub. Yes, sir, I lefc the priest and him disputing 
^bout religion. 

Aim. And pray carry these gentlemen to reap the 
bfncnt of the controversy. 

[Deli^cers the prisoners to Scrub, <v,-ho leads them cut, 
Mrs. Sul. Pray, sister, how came my lord here ? 
L:y. And pray, how came the gentleman here ? 
lyj^s. SuL 111 tell von the gr-atest piece of villainy. 

[Thej talk apart. 


Jim. I fancy, Archer, you have been more suc- 
cessful in your adventures than the house-breakers. 
Arch. No matter for my adventure, yours is the 

principal Press her this minute to marry you— now 

while she's hurried between the palpitation of her 
fear and the joy of her deliverance , now while the 

tide of her spirits is at high flood throw yourself at 

her feet, speak some romantic nonsense or other 

confound her senses, bear down her reason, and 

away with her The priest is now in the cellar, and 

dares not refuse to do the work. 

Aim. But how shall I get off without being ob- 
served ? 

Arch. You a lover I and not find a way to get off. 
. Let me see. 

Aim. You bleed. Archer. 

Arch. 'Sdeath, I'm glad on't ; this wound will do 
the business. I'll amuse the old lady and Mrs. Sul- 
len about dressing my wound, while you carry off 

Enter i^^ Bountiful. 
L. Boun. Gentlemen, could we understand how 

you would be gratified for the services 

Arch. Come, come, my lady, this is no time for 
compliments 5 I'm wounded, madam. 
L. Boun. and Mrs. Sul. How, wounded'. 
Dor. I hope, sir, you have received no hurt ! 

Aim. None but whvat you may cure 

\^Mak£s io've in dumb shenv. 


L. Boun. Let me see your arm, sir— I must have 
some powder-sugar to stop the blood— O me '.—an 
ugly gash j upon my word, sir, you must go to bed. 
Arch. Ay, my lady, a bed would do ve'ry wfell— 
Madam, [To Mrs. Sullen.] will you do me the favour 
to condu6t me to a chamber. 

L. Boun. Do, do, daughter— while I get the lint, 
and the probe, and the plaister ready. 

[Runs out one it-ay, Aim. carries off Dor. another. 
Arch. Come, madam, why don't you obey your 
mother's commands ? 

Mrs. Sul. How can you, after what is past, have 
the confidence to ask me ? 

Arch. And, if you go to that, how can you, after 
what is past, have the confidence to deny me ?— Was 
not this blood shed in your defence, and my life ex- 
posed for your prote^ion ? Look'e, madam, Vm 
none of your romantic fools that fight giants and 
monsters for nothing ; my valour is downright 
Swiss ; I am a soldier of fortune, and must be paid. 
Mrs. Sul. 'Tis ungenerous in you, sir, to upbraid 
me With your services. 

Arch. ^Tis ungenerous in you, madam, not to re- 
ward 'em. 

Mrs. Sul. How! at the expence of my honour ? 

Arch. Honour ! Can honour consist with ingrati- 
tude ? If you would deal like a woman of honour, do 
hke a man of honour. D'ye think I would deny you 
in such a case ? 



Enter Gipsey. 

G/>. Madam, my lady ordered me to tell you, that 
your brother is below, at the gate. 

Mrs.Sul. My brother! Heavens be prais'd !— Sir 
he shall thank you for your services, he has it in his 

Arch. Who is your brother, madam ? 

Mrs.Sul. Sir Charles Freeman. Youll excuse me, 
sir, I must go and receive him. 

Arch. Sir Charles Freeman! 'Sdeath and helll— 
my old acquaintance . Now, unless Aimwell has made 
good use of his time, all our fair machine goes souse 
into the sea like the Edistone . i^^^^' 

Changes to the gallery in the same house. Enter Aim- 


Dor. Well, well, my lord, you have conquered. 
Your late generous aftion, will, I hope, plead for my 
easy yielding \ though I must own, your lordship 
had a friend in the fort before. 

Aim. The sweets of Hybla dwell upon her tongue, 
Here, dodtor 

Enter Foigard n.vith a book. 
Foig. Are you prepared, bote > 


Dor. I'm ready : but first, my lord, one word — 
I have a frightful example of a hasty marriage in my 
own family j when I reflect upon't, it shocks me. 
Pray, my lord, consider a little 

Aim. Consider ? Do you doubt my honour, or my 
love ? 

Dor. Neither. I do believe you equally just as 
brave — And were your whole sex drawn out for me 
to chuse, I should not cast a look upon the multi- 
tude, if you were absent — But, my lord, I'm a wo- 
man : colours, concealments may hide a thousand 
faults in me — Therefore know me better first j I 
hardly dare affirm I know myself in any thing except 
my love. 

Aim. Such goodness who could injure ? I find my- 
self unequal to the task of villain. She has gained 
my soul, and made it honest like her own — I cannot 
hurt her. \^Aside.'] Doftor retire. [Exit Foigard.] 
Madam, behold your lover and your proselyte, and 
judge of my passion by my conversion — I'm all a lye, 
nor dare I give a fiftion to your arms j I'm all a 
counterfeit, except my passion. 

Dor. Forbid it. Heaven 1 a counterfeit ! 

Aim. I am no lord, but a poor needy man, come 
with a mean and scandalous design, to prey upon 

your fortune : But the beauties of your mind and 

person have so won me from myself, that, like a 
trusty servant, I prefer the interest of my mistress 
to my own. 

*' Dor. Sure, I have had the dream of some poor 


*' mariner ; a sleeping image of a welcome port, and 
*' wake involved in storms" — Pray, sir, who are 
you ? 

Aim. Brother to the man whose title I usurped, 
but stranger to his honour or fortune. 

Dor. Matchless honesty ! — Once I was proud, sir, 
of your wealth and title, but now am prouder that 
you want it. Now I can shew my love was justly 
levelled, and had no aim but love. Do6lor, come in. 

ETiter FoiGARD at one door^ Gipsey at another t 'who 
^whispers Do rind a. 
Your pardon, sir j we shan't want you now, sir*. 
You must excuse me — I'll wait on you presently. 

{Exit nvith Gipsey. 
Foig. Upon my shoul, now dis is foolish. {Exit, 
Aim. Gone ! and bid the priest depart— »It has an 
ominous lopk. 

Enter Akquer. 

Arch. Courage, Tom — shall I wish you joy ? 

Aim. No. 

Arch. Oons ! man, what ha' you been doing > 

Aim. O, Archer, my honesty, I fear, has ruin'dme. 

Arch. How! 

Aim. I have discovered myself. 

Arch. Discovered ! and without my consent ? 
What ! Have I embark'd my small remains in the 
same bottom with yours, and you dispose of all 
without my partnership > 


Aim. O, Archer, I own my fault. 

Arch. After conviftion — 'Tis then too late for 

pardon. You may remember, Mr. Aimwell 

that you proposed this folly — As you begun, so end 
it — Henceforth I'll hunt my fortune single — —So 

Aim. Stay, my dear Archer, but a minute. 

Arch. Stay ! What, to be despised, exposed, and 
laughed at 1 — No, I would sooner change conditions 
with t^£ worst of the rogues we just now bound, than 
bear one scornful smile from the proud knight that 
once I treated as my equal. 

Aim. What knight ? 

Arch. Sir Charles Freeman, brother to the lady 

that I had almost But no matter for that ; 'tis a 

cursed night's work, and so I leave you to make the 
best on't. 

Aim. Freeman !^ One word. Archer. Still I 

have hopes ; methought she received my confession 
with pleasure. 

Arch. 'Sdeath, who doubts it ? 

Aim. She consented after to the match j and still I 
dare believe she will be just. 

Arch. To herself, I waiTant her, as you should 
have been. 

Aim. By all my hopes she comes, and smiling 

£»/^ D R I N D A mighty gey . 

D^r. Come, my dear lord — I fly with impatierice 
I iij 


to your arms The minutetj of my absence were 

a tedious year. Where's this priest ? 

Enter Foigard. 

Arch. Oons, a brave girl I 

Dor. I suppose, my lord, this gentleman Is privy 
to our affairs. 

Arch. Yes, yes, madam, I'm to be your father. 

Dor. Come, priest, do your office. 

Arch. Make haste, make haste, couple 'em any 
way. [T'akes A\n\we.\Vs hand.'] Corne, madam, I'm to 
give you 

Dor. My mind's altered j I won't. 

Arch. Eh 

-Aim. I'm confounded. 

Foig. Upon my shoul, and so is my shelf. 

Arch. What's the matter now, madam ? 

Dor. Look'e, sir, one generous a6lion deserves 

another This gentleman's honour oblig'dhim 

to hide nothing from me ? my justice engages me to 
conceal nothing from him ; in short, sir, you are the 
person that you thought you counterfeited ; you are 
the true lord viscount Aimwell, and I wish your lord - 
ship joy. Now, priest, you may be gone ; if my lord 
is now pleas'd with the match, let his lordship marry 
me in the fare of the world. 

Aim. Archer, what does she mean ? 

Dor. Here's a witness for my truth. 

Enter Sir Charles and Mrs. Sulle'N. 
Sir Qh. My deai* lord Aimwell, I wish you joy. 


Aim. Of what ? 

Sir Ch. Of your honour and estate. Your brother 
died the day before I left London} and all your 
friends have writ after you to Brussels j among the 
rest I did myself the honour. 

Arch. Heark'e, sir knight, don't you banter t\Q\v ? 

Sir Ch. 'Tis truth, upon my honour. 

Aim. Thanks to the pregnant stars that form'd 
this accident. 

Arch. Thanks to the womb of time that brought it 
forth i away with it. 

Aim. Thanks to my guardian angel that ltd me to 
the prize [Taking DorindaV hand. 

Arch. And double thanks to the noble Sir Charles 
Freeman. My lord, I wish you joy. Tvly lady, I wish 

you joy I'gad, Sir Freeman, you're the honestest 

fellow living 'Sdeath, I'm grown strangely airy 

upon this matter — My lord, how d'ye r — A word, my 
lord. Don't you remember something of a previous 
agreement that entitles me to the moiety of this lady's 
fortune, wliich, I think, will amount to ten thousand 

Airn. Not a penny, Archer. You would ha' cut 
my throat just now, because I would not deceive this 

Arch. Ay, and I"U cut you throat still, if you 
should deceive her new. 

Ai?n, That's what I expect j and to end the dispute, 
the lady's fortune is tv/enty thou-sand pounds j we'll 

tb4 feEAUX STRATAGEM. A3 f^ , 

divide stakes ; take the twenty thousand pounds, or 
the lady. 

Dor. Hov/ ? Is your lordship so indifferent ? 

Arch. N05 no, no, madam, his lordship knows very 
well that ril take the money ; I leave you to his lord- 
sh'p, and so we're both provided for. 

Enter Foigard. 
Foig. Arra fait, de people do say you be all robb'd , 


Aifn. The ladies have been in some danger, sir, 
as you saw. 

Fctg. Upon my shoul our inn be robb'd too. 

Aim. Our inn ! By whom ? 

Foig. Upon my shalvation, our landlord has robbd 
himself, and run away wid de money. 

Arcb. Robbed himself ! 

Foig. Ay fait I and me too of a hundred pounds. 

Arch. Robb'd you of a hundred pounds ! 

Foig. Yes, fait honey, that I did owe to him. 

Ai?n: Our money's gone, Frank. 

Arch. Rot the money, my wench is gone - 

S^hnjez, 'vom quelqtiechose de Mademoiselle Cherry, 

Enter a Fello-zv ^ivith a sirom^ Box arid Letter. 
Fell. Is there one Martin here ? 
Arch. Ay, ay — who w-ints him ? 
Fell. I have a box here, and a letter for him. 
-- Arch, {leaking the box,'] Ha, ha, ha, what's here' 


Legerdemain ! By this light, my lord, our money 
again. But this unfolds the riddle. [Opening the 

letter., reads'] Hum, hum, hum O, 'tis for the 

public good, and must be communicated to the com- 

Mr. Martin, 
My father y being afraid of an impeachment by the 
rogues that are taken to-night, is gone off \ but if you 
can procure him a pardon, he'll make great disco^veries 
that may be useful to the country. Could I ha-ve met you 
instead of your master to-night, I njuould ha-ve deli-vered 
myself into your hands, ivith a sum that much exceeds that 
in your strong box, 'which I ha've sent you, ivith an assur- 
ance to my dear Martin, that I shall e^ver be his most 
faithful friend till death, Cherry Boniface . 

There's a billet-doux for you As for the father, I 

think he ought to be encouraged j and for the daugh- 
ter pray, my lord, persuade your bride to take 

her into her service instead of Gipsey. 

Aiyn. I can assure you, madam., your deliverance 
was owing to her discovery. 

Dor. Your command, my lord, will do without 
the obligation. I'll take care of her. 

Sir Ch. This good company meets opportunely in 
favour of a design I have in behalf of my unfortunate 
sister. I intend to part her from her husband— Gen- 
tlemen, will you assist me ? 

Arch. Assist you ! 'Sdeath, who would not? 


Fcig. Aj', upon, my shoul, v/e'll all ashist. 
£/z/(fr Sullen. 

Sttl. What's all this ? They tell me, spouse, that you 
had like to have been robb'd. 

Mrs. SuL Truly, spouse I was pretty near it — 

had not these two gentlemen interposed. 

SuL How came these gentlemen here ? 

Mrs. SuL That's his way of returning thanks, you 
must know. 

Foig. Ay, but upon my conscience de question be 
a-propos for all dat. 

SirCh. You promisM last night, sir, that you would 
deliver your lady to me this morning. 

Sul. Humph. 

Arch. Humph ! What do you mean by Humph ? 

— Sir, you shall deliver her In short, sir, we have 

sav'd you and your family ; and if you are not civil, 
we'll unbind the rogues, join with 'em, and set fire to 

your house What does the man mean ? Not part 

with his wife ! 

Foig. Arra, not part vv'idyour wife ! Upon my shoul, 
de man dosh not understand common shivility. 

Mrs. Sul. Hold, gentlemen, all things here must 
move by consent. Compulsion would spoil us. Let 
my dear and I talk the matter over, and you shall 
judge it between us. 

Sul. Let me know first, who are to be our judges. 
-^ Pray, sir, who are you ? 

Sir Ch. 1 am sir Charles Freeman, come to take 
away your wife. 


Sill. And you, good sir ? 

Aim. Thomas viscount Aimwell, come to take away 
your sister. 

SuL And you, pray, sir ? 

Jnh. Francis Archer, esq. come 

Sid. To take away my mother, I hope Gentle- 
men, you're heartily welcome. I never met with 
three more obliging people since I was born — And 
now, my dear, if you please, you shall have the first 

Arck. And the last for five pounds. [AsUi\ 

Mrs. SuL Spouse. 

SuL Rib. 

Mrs. SuL How long have you been married ? 

Si:L By the Almanack, fourteen months ; — but by 
my ?.cc3unt, fourteen years. 

Mrs. SuL 'Tis thereabout by my reckoning, 
f ' Fcig. Upon my conshience dere accounts vil agree. 

Mrs. SuL Pray, spouse, what did you marry for ? 

SuL. To get an heir to my estate. 

Sir. Ch. And have you succeeded ? 

SuL No. 

Arch. The condition falls of his side Pray, nia- 

dam, what did you many for ? 

Mrs. SuL To support the weakness of my sex by the 
strength of his, and to enjoy the pleasures of an agree- 
able society. 

Sir Cb. Are ycur expectations answer'd } 

Mn. SuL No. 


Foig. Arra, honeys, a clear caase, a clear caase ! 

Sir Ch* What are the bars to your mutual content- 
ment ? 

Mrs. Sul. In the first place, I can't drink ale with 
him. • 

Sul. Nor can I drink tea with her. 

Mrs. Sul. I can't hunt with you. 

Sul. Nor can I dance with you. 

Mrs. Sul. I hate cocking and racing. 

Sul. I abhor ombre and picquet. 

Mrs. Sul. Your silence is intolerable. 

Sul. Your prating is worse. 

" Mrs. Sul. Have we not been a perpetual offence to 
* each other a gnawing vulture at the heart ? 

" Sul. A frightful goblin to the sight. 

** Mrs. Sul. A porcupine to the feeling. 

*' Sul. Perpetual wormwood to the taste." 

Mrs. Sul. Is there on earth a thing -yve can agree 

Sul. Yes to part. 

Mrs. Sul. With all my heart. 

Sul. Your hand. 

Mrs. Sul. Here. 

Sul. These hands joined us, these shall part us-—" 
Away -^ 

Mrs. Sul. East. 

Sul. West. 

Mrs. Sul. North. 

Sul. South j far as the poles asunder* 

^^f^- -BtkVX. STRATAGEM. IO9 

Foig, Upon my slioul, a very pretty sheremony. 

Sir Ch, Nowi Mr. Sullen, there wants only my 
sister's fortune to make us easy. 

Sid. Sir Chai-les, you love your sister, and I love 
her fortune j every one to his fancy. 

Arch. Then 3^ou won't refund. 

Sul. Not a stiver. 

Arch. What is her portion > 

'Sir Ch. Twenty thousand pounds, sir. 

Arch, ini pay it. My lord, I thank him, has 
enabled me, and, if the lady pleases, she shall go 
home with me. This night's adventure has proved 
strangely lucky to us all— For Captain Gibbet, in 
his walk, has made bold, Mr. Sullen, with your study 
and escritoir, and has taken out all the writings of 
your estate, all the articles of marriage with your lady^ 
bills, bonds, leases, receipts to an infinite value -, I 
took 'em from him,and will deliver them to sirCharles . 
" [Gl~jes him a parcel of papers a7id parchments:^ 

Sul. How, my writings ! my head aches consumed- 
ly. Well, gentlemen, you shall have her fortune, but 
I can't talk. If you have a mind, sir Charles, to be 
merry, and celebrate my sister's wedding, and my 
divorce, you may command my house ! but ray head 
aches consumedly— Scrub, bring me a dram. 
^ Arch. 'Twould be hard to guess which of these par- 
ties is the better pleas'd, the couple join'd, or the 
couple parted 5 the one rejoicing in hopes of an un^ 
tasted happiness, and the other in their deliveranca 
from an experienced misery. 


Roth, happy in . heir server al states njce find j 
'These parted by consent, and those cotijoin\l^ 
Consent, if mutual, salves the latvyer'' s fee 5 
Cmissnt is lai-v enough to set jou free. 


The OAlSiCESTlEjli 

fii-c/ir //; 

J J, W.r/. /' 

r:JJr:/..:i. .... ^ /.,/./' ' v. v . 


l.<.a.l..n IViiil.-.l I..1 .1\i..:tl.i7<l2 








By Permission of the Managers. 

** The Lines distinguished by inverted Commas, are omitted in the Rep. csentation. 


Printed for the Proprietors, under the DireSlton of 

John Bell, lBviti0l)'%ihv^t^, Strand, 

Bookseller to His Royal Highness the Prince of Wales, 






It was a 'very fine piece of oratory of a young lax^h- 

yer at the bar, who, as counsel against a highivay" 

man, observed that the prosecutor had been robbed 

of a certain quantity of ore, which being purified by 

fire, cut into circular pieces, and impressed wiih the 

image of a hing and the arms of a state, brought 

with it the necessaries, the conveniences, and tha 

luxuries of life. I'll be hanged, says an hone 'it 

countrj'- gentleman who was standing by, if this 

flout ishing fool does not mean money. But if he had 

said it in one word, would not all the rest have been 

I implied ? 


Just such a censure as this should I deserve, if, in 

an address to Mr. Pelham, I endeavoured to enu- 
i merate the qualities he possesses. The characters of 

great men are generally connected with their names ; 
\ and it is impossible for any one to read the name of 
I Mr. Pelham, without connecting with it, in his own 

mind, the i^irtues of humanity. 


It is therefore sufficient that I desire his acceptance 
of this Play; that I acknowledge the obligations I 
owe him, and that I subscribe myself 

His most grateful. 

And most obedient servant, 



If there be one vice more pernicious. ihan all the rest 
of the black catalogue which debases humanity, it is 
that of Gaming. — To that pernicious passion this 
Play is a noble antidote.— The present age is unhap- 
pily more disiinguished by this than any other pur- 
suit; it infeds those most who are to lead in fashion, 
and subverts every generous qiwility of our nature in 
its progress. 

He, whose ill-luck and deficiency of resource re- 
duce him to the necessity of trick and deception, when 
delected, is expelled the company oi honourable Gam- 
blers, and reduced to gull inferior credulity with the 
manners of the fashionable, and the artifices of a vil- 
lain. — By degrees, society is armed against this de- 
graded plunderer — shut out from the haunts which 
2AvcL\l€vtry description of Ruffian but his oa;w, he 
is driven to unlicensed depredations upon the high- 
way, and in regular progression of association from 
the Peer down to the pickpocket, the gibba\:>w\. finishes 
what the hazard-tabk began. 

If Moore, the Author of the present affedling 
Tragedy, iiad done nothing else for mankind, he 
deserves to rank among the best benefactors to So- 
ciety of the Republic of Letters. 



Written and Spoken by Mr. Garrick. 

l-jlKEfarrCdha Mancha's knight^ whoy lance in handy 

Mounted his steed to free tk' enchanted tand^ 

Our Quixote bard sets out a monster taming, 

ArnHd at all points, to fight that hydra — Gaming, 

Aloft en Pegasus he waves his pen. 

And hurls defiance at the caitiff's den : 

The first on fancy" d giants spent his rage^ 

But this has more than windmills to engage. 

He combats passion, rooted in the soul, 

Whose powers at once delight ye and controid; 

JVhose magic bondage each lost slave enjoys. 

Nor wishes freedom, though the spell destroys. 

To save our land from this magician's charms. 

And rescue maids and matrons from his arms. 

Our knight poetic comes — And, Oh, ye fair I 

This black Enchanter's wicked arts beware! 

His subtle poison dims the brightest eyes. 

And, at his, touch, each grace and beauty dies. 

Love, gentleness^ and joy, to rage give way, 

And the soft dove becomes a bird of prey. 

May this our bold advent' rer break the spell. 

And drive the daemon to his native helL 


Ye slaves of passion^ and ye dupes of chance^ 

Wake all your pow'rs from this destruSiive trance I 

Shake off the shackles of this tyrant vice ; 

Hear other calls than those of cards and dice : 

Be learn' d in nobler arts than arts of play y 

And other debts than those of honour pay. 

No longer live insensible to shame. 

Lost to your country, families, and fame. 

Could our romantic muse this work achieve^ 

Would there one honest heart in Britain grieve f 

Tk' atttmpty though wildy would not in vain be madey 

Jf ev'ry honest hand would lend its aid. 

Dramatis IPtrfonae* 



Beverlet, - ■ » - - Mr. Kemble. 
Lewson, - - _ . _ Mr. Bensley. 

St UK ELY, ----- Mr. Palmer. 
Jarvis, - - - - ^ - Mr. Aickin. 
Bates, _ - - - Mr. Packer. 

Dawson, ----- Mr. Philliraorei 
Waitef, - - « - - - - Mr. Lyons. 

Mrs. Beverley, - - - - Mrs. Siddons. 
Charlotte, ----- Mrs. Kemble. 
Lucy, - - - - - Mrs. Hea^d. 





Mr. Pope. 
Mr. Farren. 
Mr. Aickin. 
Mr. Hull. 
Mr. Fearon. 
Mr. Thompson. 
Mr, Ledger. 

Mrs. Beverley, 



Mrs. Pope. 
Mrs. Wells. 
Mrs. Piatt. 



Enter Mrs. Beverley and Charlotte. 

Mrs. Beverley. 
Be comforted, my dear ; all may be well yet. And 
now, methinks, the lodging begins to look with ano- 
ther face. Oh, sister ! sister I if these were all my 
hardships ; if all I had to complain of were no more 
than quitting my house, servants, equipage, and shew, 
your pity would be weakness. 

C/iar. Is poverty nothing then ? 

Mrs. Bev. Nothing in the world, if it affected only 
me. While we had a fortune, I was the happiest of 
the rich : and now 'tis gone, give me but a bare sub- 
sistence and my husband's smiles, and I'll be the hap- 
piest of the poor. To me now, these lodgings want 
nothing but their master. Why do you look at me > 

Char. That I may hate my brother. 

Mrs. Bev. Don't talk so, Charlotte. 

Char. Has he not undone you ? Oh, this perni- 
cious vice of gaming ! But, methinks his usual hours 


of four or five in the morning might have contented 
him ; 'twas misery enough to wake for him till then. 

Need he have staid out all night ? 1 shall learn to 

detest him. 

Mrs. Bev, Not for the first fault. He never slept 
from me before. 

C/iar. Slept from you ! No, no, his nights have no- 
thing to do with sleep. How has this one vice drivea 

him from every virtue ! Nay, from his affe<^ion3, 

too I -The time was, sister 

Mrs. Bev. And is. I have no fear of his affeflions. 
Would I knew that he were safel 

C/iar. From ruin and his companions. — But that's 
impossible. His poor little boy, too ! What must be- 
come of him ? 

Mrs. Btv. Why, want shall teach him industry. 
From his father's mistakes he shall learn prudence, 
and from his mother's resignation, patience. Poverty- 
has no such terrors in it as you imagine. There's no 
condition of life, sickness and pain excepted, where 
happiness is excluded. The husbandman, who rises 
early to his labour, enjoys more welcome rest at 
night for't. His bread is sweeter to him ; his home 
happier; his family dearer; his enjoyments surer.' 
The sun that rouses him in the morning, set's in the 
evening to release liira. All situations have their com- 
forts, if sweet contentment dwell in the heart. But 
my poor Beverley has none. The thought of having 
ruined those he loves, is misery for ever to him. 
Would I could ease his mind of that! 


Char, If he alone were ruined, 'twere just he should 
be punished. He is my brother, 'tis true ; but when 
I think, of what he has done; of the fortune you 
brought him ; of his own large estate too, squandered 
away upon this vilest of passions, and among the vil- 
est of wretches 1 Oh, I have no patience ! My own 
little fortune is untouched, he says. Would I were 
sure on't. 

Mrs. Eev. And so you niay 'twould be a sin to 

doubt it. 

Char. I will be sure on't 'twas madness in me 

to give it to his management. But 1*11 demand it 
from him this morning, I have a melancholy occa- 
sion for it. 

Mrs. Bev. What occasion ? 

Ciar. To support a sister. 

Mrs. Bev. No ; I have no need on't. Take it, and 
reward a lover with it. The generous Lewson de- 
serves much more. Why won't you make him 

ha|)py ? 

CAar. Because my sister's miserable. 

Mrs. Bev. You must not think so. I have my jewels 
left yet. I'll sell them to supply our wants ; and 
when all's gone, these hands shall toil for our sup- 
port. The poor should be industrious — Why those 
tears, Charlotte ? 

Char. They flow in pity for you. 

Mrs. Bev. All may be well yet. When he has no- 
thing to lose I shall fetter him in these arms again j 
and then w hat is it to be poor ? 


Char. Cure him but of this destrudlive passion, and 
my uncle's death may retrieve all yet. 

Mrs. Bev. Ay, Charlotte, could we cure him. But 
the disease of play admits no cure but poverty; and 
the loss of another fortune would but increase his 
shame and his affli6tion. Will Mr. Lewson call this 

Char. He said so last night. He gave me hints 
too, that he had suspicions of our friend Stukely. 

Mrs, Bev. Not of treachery to my husband I That 
he loves play, I know, but surely he's honest. 

Char. He would fain be thought so; therefore I 
doubt him. Honesty needs no pains to set itself off. 

Enter LuCY. 

Mrs. Bev. What now, Lucy ? 

Lucy. Your old steward, madam. I had not the 
heart to deny him admittance, the good old man beg- 
ged so hard for't. [^Exit Lucy. 

£«f€r Jarvis. 

Mrs. Bev. Is this well, Jarvis ? I desired you to 
avoid me. 

Jar. Did you, madam ? I am an old man, and had 
forgot. Perhaps, too, you forbad my tears ; but I 
am old, madam, and age will be forgetful. 

Mrs. Bev, The faithful creature! how he moves me. 

[To Char. 

Char. Not to have seen him had been cruelty. 

Jar. I have forgot these apartments too. 1 reraem- 


ber none such in my young master's house ; and yet 
I liave lived in't these five and twenty years. His 
good father vvould not have dismissed me. 

Mrs. Bcv. He had no reason, Jarvis. 

Jar. I was faithful to him while he lived, and when 
he died, he bequeathed me to his son. I have been 
faithful to him, too. 

Mrs. Bev. I know it, I know it, Jarvis. 

Char. We both know it. 

Jar. I am an old man, madam, and have not a long 
time to live. I asked but to have died with him, and 
he dismissed me. 

Mrs. Bcv. Pr'ythee no more of this ! 'Twas his po- 
verty that dismissed you. 

Jar. Is he indeed so poor, then ? — Oh ! he was the 

joy of my old heart But must his creditors have 

all r — And have they sold his house too ? His father 
built it when he was but a prating boy. The times 
that I have carried him in these arms ! And, Jarvis, 
says he, when a beggar has asked chanty of me, why 
should people be poor } You shan't be poor, Jarvis ; 
if I were a king, nobody should be poor. Yet he is 

poor. And then he was so brave 1 Oh, he was a 

brave little boy 1 And yet so merciful, he'd not have 
killed the gnat that stung him. 

Mrs. Bev. Speak to him, Charlotte; for I cannot. 

*' Char. When I have wiped my eyes." 

Jar. I have a little money, madam ; it might have 
been more, but I have loved the poor. All that I have 
is yours, 



Mrs. Bev. No, Jarvis; we have enough yet. 1 thank 
you, though, and will deserve your goodness. 

Jar. But shall I see my master ? And will he let 
me attend him in his distresses ? I'll be no expence to 
him ; and 'twill kill me to be refused. Where is he, 
madam ? 

Mrs, Bev, Not at home, Jarvis. You shall see him 
another time, 

Char. To-morrow, or the next day—Oh, Jarvis I 
what a change is here ? 

Jar. A change indeed, madam 1 my old heart 

aches at it. And yet, metWnks But here's some, 

|)ody coming. 


Enter LucY with Stukelv. ? 

lucy. Mr. Stukely, madam. {Exit. 

Stuke. Good morning to you, ladies. Mr. Jarvis, 
your servant. Where's my fjiend, madam ? 

[To Mrs. Bev. 

Mrs. Bev. I should have asked that question of you. 
Have you seen him to-day } 

Stuke. No, madam. 

Char. Nor last night ? 

Stuke. Last night 1 Did he not come home, then ? 

Mrs. Bev. No. Were you not together ? 

Stuke. At the beginning of the evening; but not 
since. Where can he have staid > 

Char. You call yourself his friend, sir; why do you 
encourage him in this madness of gaming ? 

Stuke, You have asked me that question before, ^ 



hiadam ; and I told you my concern was that I could 
not save him; Mr. Beverley is a man, madam j and 
if the most friendly entreaties have no effect upon him, 
I have no other means. My purse has been his, even 
to the injury of my fortune. If that has been encou- 
ragement, I deserve censure; but I meant it to re- 
trieve him. 

Mrs. Bev. I don't doubt it, sir; and T thank you— 
But where did you leave him last night ? 

Stuke. At Wilson's, madam, if I ought to tell ; in 
company I did not like. Possibly he may be there still. 
Mr. Jarvis knows the house, I believe* 

Jar. Shall I go, madam ? 

Mrs. Bev. No, he may take it ill. 

Char. He may go as from himself. 

Stuke. And, if he pleases, madam, without naming 
me. I am faulty myself, and should conceal the Er- 
rors of a friend. But 1 can refuse nothing here. 

[^Bowing to the ladies^ 

Jar, I would fain see him, methinks. 

Mrs. Bev. Do so, then ; but take care how you up- 
braid him — I have never Upbraided him. 

Jar. Would I could bring him comfort! \_Exit, 

Stuke. Don't be too much alarmed, madam. All 
men have their errors, and their times of seeing them. 
Perhaps my friend's time is not come yet. But he has 
an uncle; and old men don't live for ever. You 
should look forward, madam ; we are taught how to 
value -A second fortune by the loss of a first. 

{^Knocking at the d90T» 


Mrs. Btv. Hark ! No that knocking was too 

rude for Mr. Beverley. Pray heaven he be well! 

Stuke, Never doubt it, madam. You shall be well, 
too — Every thing shall be well. {Knocking again, 

Mrs. Bev. The knocking is a little loud, though — 
Who waits there >. Will none of you answer? — None 
of you, did I say ? — Alas, what was I thinking of I I 
had forgot myself. 

Char. I'll go, sister But don't be alarmed so. 


Stuke.. What extraordinary accident have you to 
fear* madam ? 

Mrs, Bev. I beg your pardon ; but 'tis ever thus 
with me in Mr. Beverley's absence. No one knocks 
at the door, but I fancy it is a messenger of ill news. 

Stuke. You are too fearful, madam ; 'twas but one 
night of absence; and if ill thoughts intrude (as love 
is always doubtful), think of your worth and beauty, 
and drive tliem from your breast. 

Mrs. Bev. What thoughts ? I have no thoughts that 
wrong my husband. 

Stuke. Such thoughts indeed would wrong him. 
The worla is full of slander j and every wretch that 
knows himself unjust, charges his neighbour with 
like passions; and by the general frailty hides his 

own If you are wise, and would be happy, turn 

a deaf ear to such reports. *Tis ruin to believe them. 

Mrs. Bev. Ay, worse than ruin. 'Twould be to sin 
against conviction. Why was it mentioned ? 

Stuke, To guard you against rumour. The sport of 


half mariTcind is mischief; and for a single error they 
make men devils. If their tales reach you, disbelieve 

Mrs. Bev. What tales? By whom? Why told ? I 
have heard nothing— or if I had, with all his errors, 
my Beverley's firm faith admits no doubt— It is my 
safety, my seat of rest and joy, while the storm threat- 
ens round me. I'll not forsake it. [Stukely sighs and 
looks down.] Why turn you, sir, away ? and, why that 
sigh ? 

Stuke, I was attentive, madam ; and sighs will come 
we know not why. Perhaps I have been too busy — 
If it should seem so, impute my zeal to friendship, 
that meant to guard you against evil tongues. Your 
' Beverley is wronged, slandered most vilely— My life 
upon his truth. 
Mrs. Bev. And mine too. Who is't that doubts it ? 

But no matter 1 am prepared, sir Yet why this 

caution ? You are my husband's friend ; I think 

you mine too ; the common friend of both. [Pauses.] 
I had been unconcerned else. 

Stuie. For Heaven's sake, madam, be so still ! t 
meant to guard you against suspicion, not to alarm it, 
Mrs. Bev. Nor have you, sir. Who told you of sus- 
picion ? I have a heart it cannot reach. 

StuAe. Then I am happy— I would say more— but 
am prevented. 

fn^tr Charlotte. 
Mn. Bev, Who was it, Charlotte ? 


Char, What a heart has that Jarvis I — A creditor, 
sister. But the good old man has taken him away — 
Don't distress his wife ; don't distress his sister, I 
could hear him say. 'Tis cruel to distress the af- 
fli£ted And when he saw me at the door, he beg- 
ged pardon that his friend had knocked so loud. 

Stuke. I wish I had known of this. Was it a large 
demand, madam ? 

Char. I heard not that ; but visits, such as these, 
we must expert often — Why so distress'd, sister? 
This is no new afFli6tion. 

Mrs. Bev. No, Charlotte; but I am faint with 
watching — quite sunk and spiritless — Will you ex- 
cuse me, sir ? I'll to my chamber, and try to rest a 

Stuke. Good thoughts go with you, madam. 
My bait is taken then, [Aside.] — Poor Mrs. Bever- 
ley ! How my heart grieves to see her thus 1 

C/iar. Cure her, and be a friend then. 

Stuke. How cure her, madam ? 

Char. Reclaim my brother. 

Stu&e. Ay, give him a new creation, or breathe an- 
other soul into him. I'll think on't, madam. Ad- 
vice, I see, is thankless. 

C/iar. Useless I am sure it is, if thro' mistaken 
friendship, or other motives, you feed his passion 
with your purse, and sooth it by example. Physi- 
cians, to cure fevers, keep from the patient's thirsty 
lip the cup that would inflame him. You give ir to 
his hands. [A knocking.'^ Hark, sirl These are 

/la. 1. THE GAMESTER. I9 

my brother's desperate symptoms Another cre- 
Stukc, One not so easily got rid of— What, Levvson I 

i'n^ifr Lewson. 

Lew. Madam, your servant Yours, sir. I was 

enquiring for you at your lodgincrs. 

S>tuke. This morning I You had business, then ? 

Lew. You'll call it by another name, perhaps, 
Where's Mr. Beverley, madam ? 

Char. We have sent to enquire for him. 

Lew. Is he abroad then ? He did not use to go out 
so early. 

Char. No, nor stay out so late. 

Iaw. Is that the case ? I am sorry for it. But Mr. 
Stukely, perhaps, may direct you to him. 

Stuke. 1 have already, sir. But what was your bu- 
siness v\ ith me ? 

Lucw. To congratulate you upon your late successes 

at play. Poor Beverley ! But you are his friend ; 

and there's a comfort in having successful friends. 

Stuke. And what am I to understand by this ? 

Lew. That Beverley's a poor man, with a rich 
friend ; that's all, 

Stuke, Your words v,'ould mean something, I sup- 
pose. Another time, sir, I shall desire an explanation. 

Lew. And why not now ? I am no dealer in long 
sentences. A minute or two will do for me. 

Stuke. But not for me, sir. I am slow of appre- 
hension, and must have time and privacy. A lady's 


presence engages my attention. Another morning I 
may be found at home. 

Lew. Another morning, then, I'll wait upon you. 

Stuke. I shall expedl you, sir. Madam, your ser- 
vant. [Exit Stukely. , 

Char. What mean you by this ? 

Lew. To hint to him that I know him. 

Char. How know him ? Mere doubt and supposi- 
tion ! 

Lew, I shall have proof soon. 

Char* And what then \ Would you risque your liic 
to be his punislier ? 

Lew. My life, madam ! Don't be afraid. And yet 
I am happy in your concern for me. But let it con- 
tent you that 1 know this Stukeiy 'Twould be as 

easy to make him honest as brave. 

Char, And what do you intend to do ? 

Lew. Nothing, till I have proof. Yet my suspi- 
cions are well-grounded — But, methinks, madam, I 
am acting here without authority. Could I have 
leave to call Mr. Beverley brother, his concerns 
would be my own. Why will you make my services 
appear officious ? 

Char. You know my reasons, and should not press 
me. But I am cold, you say; and cold I will be, 

while a poor sister's destitute My heart bleeds for 

her; and till I see her sorrows moderated, love has 
no joys for me. 

Lew. Can 1 be less a friend by being a brother ? I 
fvould not say an unkind thing— But ihe pillar of 


your house is shaken ; prop it with another, and k 
shall stand firm again. You must comply.^ 

Char. And will, when I have peace wuhin myself. 
But let us change this snbjecl: — Your business here 
this morning is with my sister. Misfortunes press 
too hard upon her ; yet, till to-day, she has borne 
them nobly. 

Lew. Where is she ? 

Char. Gone to her chamber. Her spirits failed her. 

Lew. I hear her coming. Let what has passed with 
Stukely be a secret — She has already too much to 
trouble her. 

^/zffrMr5. Beverley. 

Mrs. Bev. Good morning, sir ; I heard your voice, 
and, as I thought, enquiring for me. Where's Mr. 
Stukely, Charlotte ? 

Char. This moment gone — You have been in tears, 
sister ; but here's a friend shall comfort you. 

Lew, Or, if I add to your distresses, I'll beg your 
pardon, madam. The sale of your house and furni- 
ture was finished yesterday. 

Mrs. Bev. I know it, sir ; 1 know too yonr gene- 
rous reason for putting me in mind of it. But you 
have obliged me too much already. 

Lew. There are trifles, madam, which I know you 
have set a value on; those I have piuchased, and 
will deliver. I have a friend too, that esteems you — 
He has bought largely, and will call nothing his, till 


he has seen yon. 'If a visit to him would not be 
painful, he lias begged it may be this morning. 

Mrs. Bev. Not painful in the least. My pain is 
from the kindness of my friends. Why am I to be 
obliged beyond the power of return ? 

Lezu. You shall repay us at your own time. I have 
a coach waiting at the door — Shall we have your 
company, madam. ? [To Charlotte. 

Char. No ; my brother may return soon j I'll stay 
and receive him. 

Mrs. Bev. He may want a comforter, perhaps. But 
don't upbraid him, Charlotte. We sha'n't be absent 
long. Come, sir, smce I must be so obliged. 

Lzzv. 'Tis I that am obliged. An hour, or less, 
will be sufficient for us. We shall find you at home, 
madam. \To Char, and exit with Mrs. Bev. 

Char. Certainly, I have but little inclination to 
appear abroad. Oh, this brother, this brother 1 to 
what wretchedness has he reduced us ! [^Exit, 


Changes /oStukely'j Lodgings. Enter St UYi^'LY, 
Stuke. That Lewson suspefts me *tis too plain. Yet 
why should he suspefl me ? — 1 appear the friend of 
Beverley as much as he. But I am rich, it seems ; 
and so I am, thanks to another's folly, and my own 
wisdom. To what use is wisdom, but to take ad- 
vantage of the weak ? This Beverley's my fool ; I 


cheat him, and he calls me friend. But more busi- 
ness must be done yet His wife's jewels are un- 
sold ; so is the reversion of his uncle's estate : I must 
have these too. And then there's a treasure above 
all — I love his wife Before she knew this Bever- 
ley I loved her ; but, like a cringing fool, bowed at 
a distance, while he stepp'd in and won her Ne- 
ver, never will I forgive him for it. My pride, as 
well as love, is wounded by this conquest. I must 
have vengeance. Those hints this morning were 
well thrown in— — ^Already they have fastened on 
he^ If jealousy should weaken her affections, want 

may corrupt her virtue My heart rejoices in the 

hope These jewels may do much He shall de- 
mand them of her ; which, when mine, shall be con- 
verted to special purposes -What now, Bates i 

Enter Bates. 

Bates. Is it a wonder then to see me ? The forces 
are all in readiness, and only wait for orders. VVhere's 
Beverley ? 

Stuke. At last night's rendezvous, waiting for me. 
Is Dawson with you ? 

Bates, Dressed like a nobleman ; with money in his 
pocket, and a set of dice that shall deceive the devil. 

Stuke. That fellow has a head to undo a nation j 
but for the rest, they are such low-manner'd, ill- 
looking dogs, I wonder Beverley has not suspedled 

Bates, No matter for manners and looks. Do you 


supply them with money, and they are gentlemen by 

profession The passion of gaming casts such a 

mist before the eyes, that the nobleman shall be sur- 
rounded with sharpers, and imagine himself in the 
best company. 

Stuke. There's that Williams too. ^ It was he, I 
suppose, that called at Beverley's with the note this 
morning What directions did you give him ? 

Bates. To knock loud, and be clamorous. Did 
not you see him ? 

Stuke. No, the fool sneaked off with Jarvis. Had 
he appeared within doors, as diredted, the note had 
been' discharged. I waited there on purpose. I want 
the women to think well of me ; for Lewson's grown 
suspicious; he told me so himself. 

Bates. What answer did you make him ? 

StuAe. t\ short one That I would see him soon, 

for farther explanation. 

Bates. We must take care of him. Rut what have 
we to do with Beverley ? Dawson and the rest are 
wondering at you. 

Stuke. Why, let them wonder. I have designs 
above their narrow reach. They see me lend him 
money, and they stare at me. But they are fools. I 
want kim to believe me beggared by him. 

Bates. And what then ? 

Stuke. Ay, there's the question ; but no matter ; 
at ni^hf you may know more. He waits for me at 
Wilsons. 1 told the women where to find him. 

Bates. To what purpose ? 


St-uke. To save suspicion. It looked friendly, and 

they thanked mc. Old Jarvis was dispatched to him. 

Bates. And may intreat him home 

Stuke. No ; he expects money from me ; but I'll 

have none. His wife's jewels must go Women 

are easy creatures, and refuse nothing where they 
love. Follow to Wilson's ; but be sure he sees you 
not. You are a man of chara6ter, you know ; of 
prudence and discretion. Wait for nie in an outer 
room; I shall have business for you presently.—— 
Come, sir, 

Let drudging fools by honesty grow great ; 

The shorter road to riches is deceit. [Exeunt, 


A Gaming House., with a Tabky Boxy Dice, Sc* 
Beverley discovered sitting. 


Why, what a world is this I The slave that digs for 
gold, receives his daily pittance, and sleeps con- 
tented i while those for whom he labours, convert 
their good to mischief, making abundance the means 
of want. Oh, shame, shame! Had Fortune given 
me but a little, that little had been still my own. But 
plenty leads to wai>te ; and shallow strear.13 maintain 
their current?, while swelling nvcrs beat down their 


banks, and leave their channels empty. What had I 
to do with play ? I wanted nothing. My wishes and 
my means were equal. The poor followed me with 
blessings, love scattered roses on my pillow, and 

morning waked me to delight Oh, bitter thought, 

that leads to what I was by what I am ! 1 would 
forget both- Who's there ? 

Enter a Waiter, 

Wait. A gentleman, sir, enquires for you. 

Bev. He might have used less ceremony. Stukely, 
I suppose ? 
^- Wait. No, sir, a stranger. 

Btv. Well, shew him in. \Exit Waiter. 

A messenger from Stukely then ; from him that has 
undone me I yet all in friendship-- — And now he 
lends me his little, to bring back fortune to me. 

i"a/fr Jarvis. 
Jarvis ! — Why this intrusion ? — Your absence had 
been kinder. 

Jar. I came in duty, sir. If it be troublesome — 

Bcv. It is — — I would be private- ■ ■ ■• - hid even from 
myself. Who sent you hither ? 

Jar. One that would persuade you home again. 
My mistress is not well ; her tears told me so. 

Ecv. Go with thy duty there then " But does 

^' she weep ? I am to blame to let her weep." Pr'y- 
ihee, begone : 1 have no business for thee. 

Jar, YeS| sir; to lead you from this place, I am 


your servant still. Your prosperous fortune blessed 
my old age. If that has left you, I must not leave 

Bev. Not leave me 1 Recall past time, then ; or, 
thro' this sea of storms and darkness, shew me a star 
to guide me But what canst ihou i 

Jar. Tlie little that I can I will. You have been 
generous to me — I would not oifend you, sir — but — 

Bev. No. Think'st thou Vd ruin thee too ? I hav6 

enough of shame already My wife, my wife! 

Wouldstthou believe it, Jarvis ? T have not seen hef 

all this long night .1 who have loved her so, that 

every hour of absence seemed as a gap in life. But 

other bonds have held jhc Oh, I have played the 

boy ! dropping my counters in the stream,' and reach- 
ing to redeem them, lost myself. *' Why wilt thou 
*' follow misery ? Or if thou wilt, go to thy raistress t 
*' she lias no guilt to sting herj and therefore may 
*' be comforted." 

Jar. For pity's sake, sir ! 1 have no heart to 

see this change. 

Bev. Nor I to bear it— — How speaks the world of 
me, Jarvis ? 

Jar, As of a good man dead. Of one, who, walk? 
ing in a dream, fell down a precipice. The world is 
sorry for y(ui. 

Bev. Ay, and pities me. Savs it not so? But 1 

was born to infamy I'll tell thee what it says ; it 

calls me villain, a treacherous husband, a cruel fa- 
ther, a false brother, one lost to nature and her cha- 


rities ; or, to say all in one short word, it ♦alls me — 
Gamester. Go to thy mistress; I'll see her pre- 

Jar. And why not now ? Rude people press upon 
her; loud, bawling creditors j wretches, who know 
no pity — I met one at the door ; he would have seen 
my mistress: 1 wanted means of present payment, so 
promised it to-morrow. But others may be pressing, 
and she has grief enough already. Your absence 
hangs too heavy on her. 

Uev. Tell her I'll come then. I have a moment's 
business. But what hast thou to do with my dis- 
tresses ? Thy honesty has left thee poor; and age 
wants comfort Keep what thou hast *' for cor- 
dials/' lest between thee and the grave, misery steal 

in. 1 have a friend shall counsel me This is that 


Enter Stvkely, 

Stuke. How fares it, Beverley \ Honest Mr. Jarvis, 
well met ; I hoped to find you here. That viper, 
Williams I Was it not he that troubled you this 
morning ? 

Jar, My m.i stress heard him then ? 1 am sorry 

that she heard him. 

Bev, And Jarvis promised payment. 

Stuke. That must not be. Tell him Til satisfy him. 

Jar. Will you, sir? Heaven will reward you for't. 

Bev» Generous Stukely ! Friendship like yours, had 
it ability like will, would more than balance the 
wrongs of fortune. 

Aa IL THE GAMEStEft. 20 

Stuke. You think too kindly of me Make haste 

to Williams ; his clamours may be rude else. [To Jar, 
. Jar. And my master will go home again — Alas I 
Sir, we know of hearts there breaking for his^ ab- 
sence. [Exiii 

Bev, Would I were dead I 

Stuke, " Or turn'd hermit, counting a string of 
«' beads in a dark cave ; or under a weeping willov/, 
" praying for mercy on the wicked." Ha, ha, ha ! 
— Pr'ytliee, be a man, and leave dying to disease and 
old age. Fortune may be ours again ; at least we'll 
try for't. 

Bev. No; it has fool'd us on too far. 

Stuke. Ay, ruin'd us ; and therefore v/e'll sit down 
contented. These are the despondings of men with- 
out money; but let the shining ore chink in the 
pocket, and folly turns to wisdom. We are fortune's 

children True, she's a fickle mother,- but shall 

we droop because she's peevish ? No ; she has 

smiles in store. And these her frowns are meant t* 
brigiiten 'em. 

Bev. Is this a time for levity ? But you are singly 
in the ruin, and therefore may talk lightly of it. 
With me 'tis complicated misery. 

SiuAe. You censure me unjustly- 1 but assumed, 

these spirits to cheer my friend. Heaven knows he 
wants a comforter. 

Bev. What new misforltine ? 

Shike. I would have brought you money, but hvd^ . 


ers want securities. What's to be done ? All that 
was mine is yours already, 

Bev. And there's the double weight that sinks me. 
I have undone my friend too; one, who to save a 
drowning wretch, reached out his hand, and perished 
with him. 

Stuke. Have better thoughts. 

Bev, Whence are they to proceed ? I have nothin<^ 

Stuke. [Sighing.'^ Then we're indeed undone. What 
nothing ? No moveables, nor useless trinkets ? Baw- 
bles locked up in caskets to starve their owners ? I 
have ventured deeply for you. 

Bev. Therefore this heart-ache; for I am lost be- 
yond all hope. 

Stuke. No; means may be found to save us. Jar- 
vis is rich. Who made him so ? This is no time for 

Bev. And is it for dishonesty ? The good old man 1 
Shall I rob him too ? My friend would grieve for't. 
No ; let the little that he has buy food and clothing 
for him. 

Stuke, Good morning then. [Going, 

Bev, So hasty I Why then, good morning. 

Stuke, And when we meet again, upbraid me. Say 
it was I that tempted you. Tell Lewson so; and tell 

him I have wrongM you He has suspicions of me, 

and will thank you. 

Mtv. No i we have been companions in a rash voy« 


age, and the same storm has wreck'd us both. Mine 
shall be self-upbraidings. 

Stuke. And will they feed us ? You deal unkindly 
by me. I have sold and borrow'd for you, while 
land or credit lasted ; and now, when fortune should 
be try'd, and my heart whispers me success, I am 
deserted ; turn'd loose to beggary, while you have 

Bev. What hoards ? Name 'em, and take 'em. 

Stuke. Jewels. 

Bev. And shall this thriftless hand seize them too ? 
My poor, poor wife 1 Must she lose all ? I would 
not wound her so. 

Stuke. Nor I, but from necessity. One effort more, 
and fortune may grow kind. I have unusual hopes. 

Bev. Think of some other means then. 

Stuke. I have ; and you rejedted 'em. 

Bev. Pr'ythee, let me be a man. 

Stuke. Ay, and your friend a poor one. But I have 
done. And for these trinkets of a woman, why, let 
her keep 'em to deck out pride with, and shew a 
laughing world that she has finery to starve in. 

Bev. No; she shall yield up all. My friend de- 
mands it. But need we have talk'd lightly of her ? 
The jewels that she values are truth and innocence — 
Those will adorn her ever ; and for the rest, she wore 
*em for a husband's pride, and to his wants will give 
*em. Alas I you know her not. Where shall we meet ? 

Stuke. No matter. I have chang'd my mind. Leave 
me to a prison j 'tis the reward of friendship. 


Bev. Perish mankind first Leave you to a pri- 
son I No ; fallen as you see me, I'm not that wretch. 
Nor would I change this heart, o'ercharg'd as 'tis 
with folly and misfortune, for one most prudent and 
most happy, if callous to a friend's distress* 

Stuke. You are too warm. 

Bev. In such a cause, not to be warm is to be frozen. 
Farewell. I'll meet you at your lodgings. 

Stuke, Refle6l a little. The jewels may be lost. 
Better not hazard 'em — I was too pressing. 

Bev. And I ungrateful. Refledion takes up time, 
I have no leisure for't. Within an hour expedt me. 


Stuke. The thoughtless, shallow prodigal I We 

Shall have sport at night, then — But hold -The 

jewels are not ours yet — The lady may refuse 'em— 
The husband may relent too — 'Tis more than pro- 
bable—I'll write a note to Beverley, and the contents 

shall spur him to demand 'em But am 1 grown 

this rogue thro' avarice ? No ; I have warmer mo*, 
tivcs, love and revenge — Ruin the husband, and the 
wive's virtue may be bid for. " 'Tis of uncertain 
«* value, and sinks or rises in the purchase, as want 
** or wealth, or passion governs. The poor part 
*' cheaply with it ; rich dames, tho' pleased with 
«' selling, will have high prices for't. Your love- 
*< sick girls give it for oaths and lying. But tender 
** wives, who boast of honour and affedtions, keep it 
*' against famine — Why, let famine come then ; I am 
*' in haste to purchase." 


, Enter ?>A.TES, 
Look to your men, Bates; there's money stirring. 
We meet to-night upon this spot. Hasten, and tell 
*em so. Beverley calls upon nie at my lodgings, and 
we return togeflier. Hasten, I say, the rogues will 
scatter else. 

Bates. Not till tlieir leader bids 'em. 

Stuke. Come on, then. Give 'em the word and 

follow me ; I must advise with you This is a day 

of business. \_iKeunt. 


Changes to '2>ie.v^Ki.i.Y^s Lodgings. Enter Beverley 
and Charlotte. 

Char. Your looks are chang'd too ; there's wild- 
ness in 'em. My wretched sister I How will it grieve 
her to see you thus I 

Bev. No, no — a little rest will ease me. And for 
your Lewson's kmdness to her, it has my thanks; I 
have no more to give him. 

Char. ^ Yesj a sister and her fortune. I trifle with 
him, and he complains — My looks, he says, are cold 
upon him. He thmks too 

Bev That 1 liave lost )Our fortune He dares 

not think so. 

Char. Nor does he — You are too quick at guessing. 
He Cares noi if you had. That care is mine — I lent, 
it you to husband, and now 1 claim it. 

34 THE GAMESTER. Ad 11, 

Bev. You have suspicions then. 

Char, Cure 'em, and give it me. 

Bev, To stop a sister's chiding > 

Char. To vindicate her brother. 

Bev. How if he needs no vindication ? 

Char. I would fau) hope su. 

Bev. Ay, would and cannot. Leave it to time, 
then ; 'twill satij.fy all doubts. 

Char. Mine are already satisfied, 

Bev. *Tis well. And when the subject is renewed, 
speak to me like a sister, and I will answer like a 
' Char. To tell me I'm a beggar. Why, tell it now. 
I that can bear the ruin of those dearer to me, the 
ruin of a sister and her infant, can bear that too. 

Bev. No more of this-— i you wring rny heart. 

Char. Would that rhe misery were all .our own ! 

But innocence must suffer Unt^hinkiu^ rioter I 

whose home was heaven to him; an angel dwelt iliere, 
and a little cherub, that crowned his days with bles- 
sings. — How he has lost this heaven to league with 
devils ! 

Bev. Forbear, I say ; reproaches come too late ,• 
they search, but cure not. And for tiie fortune you 
demand, we'll talk to-morrow on't y cur tempers may 
be milder. 

CJiar. Or, if 'tis gone, why farewell all. I claim- 
ed it for a sister. " She holds my heart in hers j and 

** every pang she feels tears it in pieces" But I'll 

upbraid no more. What Heaven permits, perhaps, 


it may ordain ; " and sorrow tiien is sinful.*' Yet 
that the husband ! father ! brother 1 should be its 

instruments of vengeance I 'Tis grievous to know 


Bev. If you're iny sister, spare the remembrance — 
it wounds too deeply. To-morrow shall clear all; 
and when the worst is known, it may be better than 
your fears. Comfort my wife ; and for the pains of 
absence, I'll make atonement. The world may yet 
go well with us. 

Ckar. See where she comes ! Look chearfully 

upon her Affections such as hers are prying, and 

lend those eyes that read the soul. 

Enter Mrs. Beverley c;z^Levvson. 

Mrs. Bev. My life ! 

Bev. My love 1 how fares it i I have been a truant 

Mrs. Bev. But we^meet now, and that heals all — 
Doubts and alarms I have had ; but in this dear em- 
brace I bury and forget *em. My friend here [Point- 
ing to Lewson] has been indeed a friend. Charlotte, 
'tis you must thank him : your brother's thanks and 
mine are of too lirtle value. 

Bev. Yet what we have we'll pay. I thank you, 
sir, and am obliged. I would say more, but that 
your goodness to the wife upbraids the husband's fol- 
lies. Had I been wise, she had not trespassed on 
your bounty. 


Lew. Nor has she trespassed. The little I have 
done, acceptance overpa\ s. 

Char. So friendship thinks 

Mrs. Bev. And double oblig;^tion^ by striving; to 

conceal 'em We'll talk another time on't You 

are too thoughtful, love. 

Btv. No, I have reason for these thoughts. 

Char. And hatred for the cause — Would you had 
that too ! 

Bcv. I have The cause v/as avarice. 

Char. And who the tempter? 

Bev* A ruined friend — ruined by too much kind- 

Lew. Ay, worse than ruined ; stabbed in his fame, 
mortally stabbed — riches cann't cure him. 

Bev. Or if they could, those I have drained him of. 
SoKiething of this he hinted in the morning — that 
Lewson had suspicions of him Why tiiese suspi- 
cions ? l^^ngTtly. 

Lew. At school we knew this Sfukely. A cun- 
ning, plodding boy he was, sordid and cruel, slow at 
his task, but quick at shifts and tricking. He 
schemed out mischief, that others might be pu- 
nished ; and would tell his tale with so much art, 
that for the lash he merited, rewards and praise were 
given him. Shew me a boy with such a mind, and 
time, that ripens manhood in him, shall ripen vice 

too I'll prove him, and lay him open to you— — 

Till then be warned 1 know him, and therefore 

shun him. 


Bev. As I would those that wrong him. — You are 
too busy, sir. 

Mrs. Bev. No, not too busy -Mistaken, perhaps 

That had been milder. 

Lew. No matter, madam. I can bear this, and 
praise the heart that prompts it — Pity such friend- 
ship should be so placed 1 

Bev. A^ain, sir! But I'll bear too — You wron"' 
him, Lewson, and will be sorry for't. 

C/iar. Ay, when 'tis proved he wrongs him. The 
world is full of hypocrites. 

Bev. And Stukely one—so you would infer, I 

think. I'll hear no more of this— my heart aches 

for him 1 have undone him. 

Lew. The world says otherwise, 

Bev. The world is false then- — I have business 
with you, love. [7^j Mrs. Bev.] We'll leave 'em to 
their rancour. [Going, 

Char. No ; we shall find room within for't. . 

Come this way, sir. \To Lew. 

Lew. Another time my friend will thank me; that 
time is hastening too. [Exeunt Lew. and Char. 

Bev. They hurt me beyond bearing Is Stukely 

false? Then honesty has left us! 'Twere sinning 
against Heaven to think so. 

Mrs. Bev. I never doubted him. 

Bev. No; you are charity. Meekness and ever- 
during patience live in that heart, and love that 
knows no change. Why did I rui-n you ? 

Airs. Bev, Yqu have not ruined me. I have no 


wants when you are present, nor wishes in your ab- 
sence but to be blest with your return. Be but re- 
siorn'd to what has happened, and I am rich beyond 
the dreams of avarice. 

Bev- My generous girl! But memory will be 

busv ; still crowding on my the u^l.ts, to sour the 
present by the past. I have another pang too. 

Mrs. Bev. Tell it, and let me cure it. 

Bev. That friend that generous friend, whose 

fame they have traduced i have undone him too. 

While he ' ad means he lent me largely; and now a 
prison niubi te liis f crfion. 

Mrs. Pev No; I hope otherwise. 

B^v. To hope must be to ad:. The charitable wish 
feeds not the hungry Something must be done. 

Mrs. Bev. W.hat? 

Bev. In bitterness of heart he told me, just now he 
told me, 1 hafi i.ndo; e him. Could I hear that, and 
think of barpi;.es8r No ; I have disclaimed it, while 
he is miserable, 

Mrs. Bev. Tlie world may mend with us, and then 
we nsay be gratetu: There's comfoit in that hope. 

Bev. Ay; 'tis the sick man's cordial, his promised 

cure ; v\ hile in preparing it the patient dies. What 

now } 

Enter Lucy, 

Lucy, A letter, sir. [Delivers ity and exit ^ > 

Bev. The hand is Stukely's. 

[Opens ity and reads it to himself, \ 

A3 II. THE GAMES-^ER.' 39 

Mrs. Bev. And brings good news— at least I'll hope 
so What says he, love i 

Bev. Why this — too much for patience. Yet he 
directs me to conceal it from you. [Reads.] ' Let 
your haste to see me be the only proof of your esteem 
for me. I have determined, since we parted, to bid 
adieu to England ; choosing rather to forsake my 
country, than owe my freedom in it to the means we 
talked of. Keep this a secret at home, and hasten to 
the ruined R, Stukely.* 

Ruined by friendship! 1 must relieve or follow 


Mrs. Bev. Follow him, did you say i Then I am 
lost indeed I 

Bev. O this infernal vice I how has it sunk- me ) A 
vice, whose highest joy was poor to my domestic hap« 
piness. Yet how have I pursued it I turned all my 
comforts to bitterest pangs, and all my smiles to tears. 
Damn'd, damn*d infatuation I 

Mrs. Bev. Be cool, my life! What are the means 
the letter talks of? Have you — have 1 those means ? 
Tell me, and case me. I have no life while you are 

Bev. No, no ; it must not be. 'Tis I alone liave 
sinned; 'tis I alone must suffer. You shall reserve 
- those means to keep my child and his wronged mo- 
ther from want and wretchedness. 

Mrs. Bev. What means } 

Bev. I came to rob you of *em — but cannot — dare 



not Those jewels are your sole support 1 

should be more than monster to request 'em. 

Mrs. Bev. My jewels ! Trifles, not worth the speak- 
ing of, if weighed a-ainst a husband's peace j but 
let'em purchase that, and the world's weahh is of 
less value. 

Bev. Amazing goodness! How little do I seem be- 
fore such virtues \ 

Mrs. Bev No more, my love. I kept 'em till ©c- 
casion called to use 'em; now is the occasion, and I'll 
resign 'em cheerfully. 

Bev. Why we'll be rich in love then. <' But this 
*' excess of kindness melts me. Yet for a friend one 
" would do much— He has denied me nothing." 

Mrs. Bev. Come to my closet— But let him manage 
wisely. We have no more to give him. 

Bev. Where learnt my love this excellence ? «' 'Tis 
** Heaven's own teaching : that Heaven, which to an 
** angel's form has given a mind more lovely." 1 am 
unworthy of you, but will deserve you better. 

Henceforth viy follies and ntgkBs shall cease^ 

And all to come be penitence and peace ; • 

r^ice shall no more attratt me with her ckarmsy 

Nor pleasure reach we, but in these dear arms,. 




Stukely'5 Lodgings. Enter Stukely and Bates. 

So runs the world, Bates. Fools are the natural prey 
of knaves ; Nature designed them so, when she made 
lambs for wolves. The laws that fear and policy have 
framed, Nature declaims : she knows but two, and 
those are force and cunning. The nobler law is force ; 
but then there's danger in't ; while cunning, like a 
skilful miner, works safely and unseen. 

Bates. And therefore wisely. Force must have 
nerves and sinews; cunning wants neither. The 
dwarf that has it shall trip the giant's heels up. 

Stuke. And bind him to the ground. Why, we'll 
ereft a shrine for Nature, and be her oracles. Con- 
science is weakness; fear made it, and fear maintains 
it. The dread of shame, inward reproaches, and 
ficlitious burnings -swell out the phantom. Nature 
knows none of this ; her laws are freedom. 

Bates. Sound dodlrine, and well delivered 1 

Stuke. We are sincere, too, and pradlise what we 
teach. Let the grave pedant say as much. — But now 
to business — The jewels are disposed of : and Bever- 
ley again worth money. He waits to count his gold 
out, and then comes hither. If my design succeeds, 
this night we finish with him — Go to your lodgings, 


and be busy— You understand conveyances, and make 
ruin sure. 

Bates. Better stop here. The sale of this reversion 
may be talked of — There's danger in it. 

Stuke, No, 'tis the mark I aim at. We'll thrive and 
laugh. You are the purchaser, and there's the pay- 
ment. [Giving a pocket-book.'\ He thinks vou r-ch; and 
so you shall be. Enquire for titles, and deal hardly; 
'twill look like honesty. 

Bates. How if he suspe6ls us, 

Siuke. Leave it to me. I study hearts, and when 
to work upon them. Go to your lodgings ; and if we 
come, be busy over papers. Talk of a thoughtless 
age, ofgaming and extravagance; yuu have a face for't. 

Bates. A feeling too that would avoid it. We push 
too far; but I have cautioned you. Ifit ends ill, 
you'll think of me — and so, adieu. \_Exit, 

Stuke. This fellow sins by halves; his fears are con- 
science to him. I'll turn these fears to use. Rogues 
that dread shame, will still be greater rogues to hide 
their guilt — This shall be tiiought of. Lewson grows 
troublesome — We must get rid ot him — He knows too 
much, i have a lale for Beverley ; part of it truth, 
too — He shall call Lewson to account— if it succeeds, 
'tis well ; if not, we must try other means — But here 
he comes — I must dissemble. 

Enter Beverlf.y. 
Look to the door there! — yn a seeming f right. "l — My 
friend 1 — I thought of other visitors. 


Bev, No ; these shall guard you from them— [Ofer^ 
ing notes.] Take them, and use them cautiously — The 
world deals hardly by us. 

Stuke. And shall I leave you destitute ? No : your 
wants are the greatest. Another climate may treat 
me kinder. The shelter of to-night takes nie from 

Bev. Let these be your support then — Yet is there 
need of parting? 1 mayjiave means again ; we'll shaie 
them, and live wisely. 

Stuke. No : I should tempt you on. Habit is nature 
in me : ruin cann't cure it. Even now I would be 
gaming. Taught by experience as I am, and know- 
ing this poor sum is all that's left us, T am for ventur- 
ing still — And say I am to blame — Yet will this little 
supply our wants ? No, we must put it out to usury. 
Whether 'ris madnei>s in me, or some restless impulse 
of good fortune, I yet am ignorant; but 

Bev. Take it, and succeed then. I'll try no more. 

Siuke. Tis surely impulse; it pleads so strongly— 

But you are cold We'll e*en part here then. And 

for this last reserve, keep it for better uses; I'll have 
none on't. I thank you though, and will seek fortune 
singly — One thing I had forgot ■ 

Bev. What is it ? 

Stuke. Perhaps, 'twere best forgotten. But I am 
open in my nature, and zealous for the honour of my 
friend Lewson speaks freely of you. 

Bev. Of you, I know he does. 

44 THE GAMESTER. Ad 111. 

Sluke. I can forgive him for't ; but, for my friend, 
I'm angry. 

Btv. What says he of me ? 

Stuke. That Charlotte's fortune is embezzled— He 
talks on*t loudly. 

Bev. He shall be silenced, then — How heard you 
of it ? 

Stuke. From many. He questioned Bates about it. 
You must account with him, he says. 

Bev. Or he with me and soon, too. 

Stuke. Speak mildly to him. Cautions are best. 

Bev. I'll think on't — But whither go you ? 

Stuke. From poverty and prisons — No matter whi- 
ther. If fortune changes you may hear from me. 

Bev. May these be prosperous, then. {Offering tht 

notes, which he refuses.'] Nay, they are yours 1 have 

sworn it, and will have nothing — Take them and use 

Stuke. Singly I will not— —My cares are for my 
friend ; for his lost fortune and ruined family. All 
separate interests I disclaim. Together we have fall- 
en ; together we must rise. My heart, my honour, 
and affections, all will have it so. 

Bev. I am weary of being fooled. 

Stuke. And so am I-' — Here let us part, then— »— 
These bodings of good-fortune shall all be stifled j 

call them folly, and forget them This one em* 

brace, and then farewell. \_OffeTing to embrace^ 

Bev. No ; stay a moment—How my poor heart's 


distrafted 1 I have these bodings too ; but wliether 
caught from you, or prompted by my good or evil 
genius, I know not — The trial shall determine — And 
yet, my wife. 

Stuke. Ay, ay, she'll chide. 

Bev. No } my chidings are all here. 

[^Pointing to hh heart. 

Stuke. I'll not persuade you. 

Bcv, I am persuaded ; by reason too; the strongest 
reason ; Necessity. Oh, could I but regain the height 
I have fallen from. Heaven should forsake me in my 
latest hour, if I again mixed in these scenes, or sacri- 
ficed the husband's peace, his joy and best affections, 
to avarice and infamy. 

Stuhe. 1 have resolved like you ; and since our mo- 
tives are so honest, why should we fear success ? 

Bev. Come on, then — Where shall we meet? 

Stuke. At Wilson's — Yet if it hurts you, leave me : 
I have misled you often. 

Bev. We have misled each other — But come I For- 
tune is fickle, and may be tired with plaguing us——. 
There let us rest our hopes. 

Stuke. Yet think a little 

Bev. I cannot- thinking but distra^s me. 

When desperation leads, all thoughts are ; 
Reason would lose what rashness may obtain. 




Changes to Beverley 'i Lodgings. Enter Mrs, Bev- 
riiLEY, fl?2^ Charlotte. 

CAar. *Twas all a seheme, a mean one ; unworthy 
of my brother. 

Mrs. Bev. No, I am sure it was not— -Stukely is ho- 
nest too ; I know he is— This madness has undone 
them both. 

C/iar. My brother irrecoverable — You are too spi- 
ritless a wife— A mournful tale, mixed with a few kind 
words, will steal away your soul. The world's too 
subtle for such goodness. Had I been by, he should 
have asked your life sooner than those jewels. 

Mrs. Bev. He should have had it, then. [IVarmiy.'] 
I live but to oblige him. She who can love, and is 
beloved like me, will do as much. Men have done 
more for mistresses, and women for a base deluder : 
and shall a wife do less ? Your chidings hurt me, 

Char, And come too late ; they might have saved 
you else. How could he use you so ? 

Mrs. Bev. 'Twas friendship did it. His heart was 
breaking for a friend. 

CAar. The friend that has betrayed him. 

Mrs. Bev. Pr'ythee don't think so. 

CAar. To-morrow he accounts with me. 

Mrs. Bev. And fairly — I will not doubt it. 

CAur. Unless a friend has wanted 1 have no 


patience Sister! sister! we are bound to curse this 


Mrs. Bev. iMy Beverley speaks nobly of him. 

Char, And Lewson truly — But I displease you with 
this talk. To-morrow will instruct us, 

Mrs. Bev. Stay till it comes then 1 would not 

think so hardly. 

Char. Nor I, but from convidion Yet we have 

hope of better days My uncle is infirm, and of an 

age that threatens hourly Or if he lives, you never 

have offended him ; and for distresses so unmerited he 
Vvill have pity. 

Mrs. Bev. V know it, and am cheerful. We have no 
more to lose ; and for what's gone, if it brings pru- 
dence home, the purchase was well made. 

Char. My Lewson will be kind too. While he and 
I have life and means, you shall divide with us — And 
see, he's here. 

Enter Lewson. 
We were just speaking of you. 

Lew. 'Tis best to interrupt you tlien. Few charac- 
ters will bear a scrutiny ; and where the bad out- 
weighs the good, he's safest tlial's least talked of. 
What say you, madam ? \To Charlotte. 

Char. That I hate scandal, though a woman 

therefore talk seldom of you. 

Mrs. Bev. Or, with more truth, that, though a wo- 
man, she loves to praise Therefore talks always 

of you. rU leave you to decide it. \_Exit, 

48 THE GAMESTER. A£l ///. 

tew. How good and amiable ! I came to talk in pri- 
vate vvith you J of matters that concern you. 

Char, What matters ? 

Lew. First answer me sincerely to what I ask. 

Char. I will But you alarm me. 

Lew. I am too grave, perhaps ; but be assured of 
this, I have no news that troubles me, and therefore 
should not you. 

Char. I am easy then — Propose your question. 

Lew. 'Tis now a tedious twelve-month, since, with 
an open and kind heart you said you loved me. 

Char. So tedious, did you say ? 

Lew. And when in consequence of such sweet 
words, I pressed for marriage, you gave a voluntary 
promise that you would live for me. 

Char. You think me changed, then ? [Angrily, 

Lew. I did not say so. A thousand times 1 have 
pressed for the performance of this promise : but pri- 
vate cares, a brother's and a sister's ruin, were reasons 
for delaying it. 

Char. I had no other reasons.- Where will this 


Lew. It shall end presently. 

Char. Go on, sir. 

Lew. A promise, such as this, given freely, not ex- 
torted, the world thinks binding ; but I think other- 

Char. And would release me from it ? 

IjCw. You are too impatient, madam. 
Char. Cool, sir — quite cool — Pi ay go on. 


Lew. Time and a near acquaintance with my faults 
may have brought cliange — if it be so ; or for a mo- 
ment, if you have wished this promise were unmade, 

here I acquit you of it This is my question then ; 

and with such plainness as I ask it, I shall entreat an 
ansv. er. Have you repented of this pronu'se } 

CAer. Stay, sir. The man that can suspect me, 
shall find me changed Why am I doubted i 

Lew. My doubts are of myself. 1 have my faults, 
and you have observation. If from my temper, my 
words oradtions, you have conceived a thought against 
me, or even a wish for separation, all that has passed 
is nothing. 

. C/iar. You startle me— But tell me — Imust be an- 
swered first. Is it from honour you speak this ? Or do 
you wish me changed ? 

Lew. Heaven knows I do not. Life and my Char- 
lotte are so conneded, that to lose one, were loss of 
both. Yet for a promise, thou;:h given in love, and 
meant for binding; if time or accident, or reason 
should change opinion — with me that promise has no 

CAar, Why, now I'll answer you. Your doubts are 
prophecies 1 am really changed. 

Lew. Indeed 1 

C/iar. I could torment you now, as you have me j 

but it is not in my nature. That I am chang'd, I 

own : for what at first was inclination, is now grown 

reason in me; and from that reason, had I the world; 

nay, were I poorer than the poorest, and you to© 



wanting bread, with but a hovel to invite me to — I 
would be yours, and happy. 

Lew. My kindest Charlotte I [Taking her kand.] 
Thanks are too poor for this — and words too weak I 
But if we love so, why should our union be de- 
layed ? 

CAar, For happier times. The present are too 

Lew. I may have reasons that press it now. 

Ckar. What reasons ? 

Lew. The strongest reasons ; unanswerable ones. 

Ckar. Be quick and name them. 

Lew. No, madam ; I am bound in honour to make 

conditions first -I am bound by inclination too. 

This sweet profusion of kind words pains while it 
pleases. I dread the losing you. 

Ckar. Astonishment! u hat mean you? 

Lew. First promise, that ro-morrow, or the next 
day, you will be mine for ever. 

Ckar. I do^ though misery should succeed. 

Lew. Thus then I seize youl And with you every 
joy on this side Heaven ! 

Ckar. And thus I seal my promjse. [^Embracing kirn. 
Now, sir, your secret. 

Lew. Your fortune's lost. 

Ckar. My fortune lost! I'll study to be hum- 
ble then. But was my promise claimed for this? 
How nobly generous! Where learned you this sad 
news ? 

Lew. From Bates, Stukely's prime agent. I have 


obliged him, and he's grateful — He told it me in 
friendship, to warn me from my Charlotte. 

Char. 'Twas honest in him, and I'll esteem him 

Lew. He knows much more than he has told. 

Char. For me it is enough. And for your generous 
love, I thank you from my soul. If you'd oblige me 
more, give me a little time. 

Lew. Why time? It robs us of our happiness. 

Char. T have a task to learn first. The little pride 
this fortune gave me must be subdued. Once we 
were equal ; and might h.^ve met cbliging and obli- 
ged. But now *tis otherwise ; and for a hfe of obli- 
gations, 1 have nut learned to bear it 

Lew. Mine is that life. You are too noble. 

Char. Leave me to think oji't. 

Lew. To-morrow then you'll fix my happiness ? 

Char. All that I can, I will. 

Lew. It must be so \ we live but for each other. 
Keep what you know a secret ; and when we meet to- 
morrovv, more may be knov.n.- Farewell. \_Exit, 

Char. My poor, poor sister ! how v, ©uld this wound 
herl But PI! cenceal it, and speak comfort to her. 



Changes to a Room in the Gaming-House. Enter Bever- 
ley ^w^Stukely. 
Bev. Whither would you lead me ? \^Angrily, 



Stuke. Where we may vent our curses. 
Bev. Ay, on yourself, and those damned counsels 
that have destroyed me. A thousand fiends were in 
that bosom, and all let loose to tempt me— I had re- 
sisted else. 

Stuke. Go on, sir— I have deserved this from you. 

Bev. And curses everlasting- Time is too scanty 

for them 

Stuke. What have I done ? 

Bev. What the arch-devil of old did— soothed with 
false hopes for certain ruin. 

Stuke. Myself unhurt; nay, pleased at your des- 
trudion— So your words mean. Why, tell it to the 
world. I am too poor to find a friend in't. 

Bev. A friend I What's he ? I had a friend. 

Stuke. And have one still. 

Bev. Ay ; I'll tell you of this friend. He found 
me happiest of the happy. Fortune and honour 
crowned me ; and love and peace lived in my heart. 
One spark of folly lurked there; that too he found; 
and by deceitful breath blew inro flames that have 
consumed me. This friend were you to me, 

Stuke. A little more, perhaps-^The friend who gave 
his all to save you; and not succeeding, chose ruin 
with you. But no matter, I have undone you and am 
a villain. 

Bev. No ; I think not — The villains are within. 

Stuke. What villains ? 

J^ev. Dawson and the rest— We have been dupes ta 


Stuke. How know you this ? I have had doubts as 
well as you ; yet still as fortune changed I blushed 
at my own thoughts, But you have proof, per- 

Bev. Ay, damned ones. Repeated losses — Night 
after niglit, and no reverse — Chance has no hand in 

Stuke. I think more charitably ; yet I am peevish 
in my nature, and apt to doubt — The world speaks 
fairly of this Dawson, so it does of the rest. We have 
watched them closely too. But 'tis a right usurped by 
losers, to think the winners knaves — We'll have more 
manhood in us. 

Bev. I know not what to think* -This night has 

stung me to the quick — Blasted my reputation too — I 
have bound my honour to these vipers; played meanly 
upon credit, 'till I tired them ; and now they shun me 
to rifle one another. What's to be done ? 

Stuke. Nothing. My counsels have been fatal. 

Bev. By Heaven I'll not survive this shame — Trai- 
tor! 'tis you have brought it on me. [Taking hold of 
him.'] Shew me the means to save me, or I'll commit a 
murder here, and next upon myself. 

Stuke. Why do it then, and rid me of ingratitude. 

Bev, Pr'ythee forgive this language — I speak I know 
not what — Rage and despair are in my heart, and 
hurry me to madness. My home is horror to me — 
I'll not return to it. Speak quickly j tell me, if in this 
wreck of fortune, one hope remains ? Name it, and be 
my oracle. 



Stuke. To vent your curses on — You have bestowed 
them liberally. Take your own counsel; and should 
a desperate hope present itself, 'twill suit your despe- 
rate tortune. I'll not advise you. 

Bev. What hope? By Heaven I'll catch at it, how- 
ever desperate. I am so sunk in misery, it cannot lay 
me lower. 

Stuke, You have an uncle. 
Beu. Ay, what of him ? 

Stuke. Old men Hve long by temperance; while 
their heirs starve on expe(5iation, 
Bcv. What mean you f 

Stuke. That the reversion of his estate is yours ; and 
will bring money to pay debts with— Nay more, it 
may retrieve what's past, 
Bev. Or leave my child a beggar. 
Stuke. And wliat's his father? A dishonourable one; 

engaged for sums he cannot pay That should be 

thought of. 

Bev. It is my shame — The poison that inflames me. 
Where shall we go ? To whom ? I'm impatient till 
all's lost. 

Stuke. All may be your's again — Your man is Bates 
—He has large funds at his command, and will deal 
justly by you. 

Bev. I am resolved — Tell them within we'll meet 

them presently j and with full purses, too Come, 

follow me. 

Stuke. No. I'll have no hand in this ; nor do I 
counsel it— Use your discretion, and aCt from that. 
YouMl find me at my lodgings. 


Bev. Succeed what will i this night IHl dare the worst. 
*Tis loss of fear to be completely curs' d. [Exit. 

Stuke. Why, lose it then for ever Fear is the 

mind's worst evil ; and 'tis a friendly office to drive it 
from the bosom — Thus far has fortune crowned me — 
Yet Beverley is rich ; rich in his wife's best treasure, 
her honour and affedions. I would supplant him 
there too. But 'tis the curse of thinking minds 
to raise up difficulties. Fools only conquer women. 
Fearless of dangers which they see not, they press on 
boldly, and by persisting, prosper. Yet may a tale of 

art do much Charlotte is sometimes absent. The 

seeds of jealousy are sown already. If 1 mistake not, 
they have taken root too. Now is the time to ripen 
them, and reap the harvest. The softest of her sex, 
if wronged in love, or thinking that she's wronged, 
becomes a tygress in revenge — I'll instantly to Bever- 
ley's No matter for the danger When beauty 

leads us on, 'tis indiscretion to refleQ, and cowardice 
to doubt. [£a7/. 


Changes to Beverley'^ Lodgings. Enter Mrs, Bever- 
ley and Lucy. 

Mrs. Bev. Did Charlotte tell you any thing ? 

Lucy. No, madam. 

Mrs, Bev, She look'd confused, methoughti said she 


had business with her Lewson ; which, when I pressed 
to know, tears only were her answer. 

Lucy. She seemed in haste, too-Yet her return may 
bring you comfort. 

Mrs. Bev, No, my kind girl ; I was not born for't 
-But why do I distress thee? Thy sympathizing 
heart bleeds for the ills of others—What pity that 
thy mistress cann't reward thee ! But there's a Power 
above, that sees, and will remember all. [Knocking,-] 
" Pr'ythee sooth me with the song thou sungest last 
" night. It suits this change of fortune | and there's 
" a melancholy in't that pleases me. 

** Lucy, I fear it hurts you, madam. Your good- 
" ness, too, draws tears from me— But I'll dry them 
" and obey you. 


" When Damon languish'' d at my feet ^ 

" And I believ^'d him true^ / 

** The moments of delight how sweet I 
But, ah I how swift they few i 
The sunny hilly thefozo'ry vale^ 
The garden and the grove, 
** Have echoed to his ardent ta/e, 
" ^d vows of endless love, 

" The conquest gained, he left his prize ^ 

** He left her to complain, 
*' To talk of joy with weeping eyeSf 

'* And measure time by pain. 




<* But Beav'n will take the mourner* s party 

** In pity to despair ; 
<* And the last sigh that rends the hearty 

«* Shall waft the spirit there, 

<* Mrs. Bcv. I tliank thee, Lucy ; I thank Heaven 
** too, my griefs are none of these. Yet Stukely 
** deals in hints; he talks of rumours ; I'll urge him 
•* to speak plainly." Hark I there's some one en- 

Lucy. Perhaps 'tis my master, madam. \Exit, 

Mrs. Bev. Let him be well too, and I am satisfied. 
[Goes to the doer and listens.'] No, 'tis another's voiee ; 
his had been music to me. Who is it, Lucy ? 

Re-enter LuCY with Stukely. 

Lvcy. Mr. Stukely, madam. \^Exit, 

Stuke. To meet you thus alone, madam, was what 
I wished. Unseasonable visits,, when friendship war- 
rants them, need no excuse — therefore I make none. 

Mrs. Bev. What mean you, sir ? And where is your 
friend ? 

Stuke. Men may have secrets, madam, which their 
best friends are not admitted to. We parted in the 
morning, not soon to meet again. 

Mrs. Bev. You mean to leave us then j to leave 
your country too. I am no stranger to your reasons, 
and pity your misfortunes. 

Stuhe. Your pity has undone you. Could Bever- . 
ley do this? That letter was a false one; a mean 


contrivance to rob you of your jewels T wrote it 


Mrs. Bev. Impossible ! Whence came it then ? 

Sf.uke. Wrong'd as I am, madam, I must speak 

Mrs. Bev. Do so, and ease me. Your hints have 
troubled me. Reports, you say, are stirring—Re- 
ports of whom i Yon wished me not to credit them* 
What, sir, are these reports ? 

Stuke. I thought them slander, madam ; and cau- 
tioned you in friendship, lest from officious tongues 
the tale had reached you with double aggravation. 

Mrs. Bev. Proceed, sir. 

Stuke. Jt is a debt due to my fame; due to an in- 
jured wiie too We are both injured. 

Mrs ^ Bev. How injured? And who has injured 
us ? 

Fruke My fr"e;\d, vo'.n- husband. 

Mrs, Bev. You wouKl resent for both then But 

know, sir, my injuries are my own, and do not need 
a champion. 

Stuke. Be not too hasty, madam. I come not in 
resentment, but for acquittance. You thought me 
poor; and to the feiga'd distiessesof a friend gave 
up your jewels. 

Mrs. Bev. I gave them to a husband. 

Stuke. Who gave them to a- 

Mrs. Bev. What, whom did he give them to I 

Stuke. A mistress 

Mrs. Bev, No, on my life he did not. 


Stuke. Himself confessed it, with curses on her 

Mrs. Bev. I'll not believe it — He has no mistress ; 
or if he has, why is it told to me ? 

Stuke. To guard you against insults. He told me, 
that, to move you to compliance, he forged that let« 
ter, pretending I was ruin'd, ruin'd by him too. The 
fraud succeeded j and what a trusting wife bestowed 
in pity, was lavished on a wanton. 

Mrs. Bev. Then I am lost indeed I and my afflic* 
tio'ns are too powerful for me. His follies T have 
borne without upbraiding, and saw the approach of 

poverty without a tear My affections, my strong 

affe6lions, supported me through every trial. 

Stuke. Be patient, madam- 

Mrs. Bev. Patient I The barbarous, ungrateful 
man! And does he think that the tenderness of my 
heart is his best security for wounding it? But he 
shall find that injuries such as these can arm my weak- 
ness for vengeance and redress. 

Stuke. Ha! then I may succeed. \^Aside.'] Redress 
is in your power. 

Mrs. Bev. What redress ? 

Stuke, Forgive me, madam, if, in my zeal to serve 
you, I hazard your displeasure. Think of your 
wretched state. Already want surrounds you — Is it 
in patience to b-ear that ? To see your helpless little 
one robbed of his birth-right ? A sister, too, with 
unavailing tears lamenting her lost fortune ? Ho com-. 

6o THE GAMESTER. A8 111, 

Fort left you, but ineffe6lual pity from the few, out- 
weigird by insults from the many. 

Mrs. Bev. Am I so lost a creature r Well, sir, 

my redress ? 

Siuke, To be resclv'd is to secure it. The mar- 
riage" vow, once violatfed, is, in the sight of Heaven, 
dissolved — Start not, but hear me. *Tis now the 
summer of your youth; time has not cropt the roses 
from your cheek, tho* sorrow long has washed them 
— Then use your beauty wisely, and, freed by in- 
juries, fly from the cruellest of men for shelter with 
the kindest. 

Mrs. Bev. And who is he ? 

Stuie. A friend to the unfortunate ; a bold one too, 
who, while the storm is bursting on your brow, and 
lightning flashing from your eyes, dares tell you that 
he loves you. 

Mrs. Bev. Would that these eyes had Heaven's own 
lightning, that, with a look, thus I might blast thee I 
Am I then fallen so low ? Has poverty so humbled 
me, that I should listen to a hellish offer, and sell my 

soul for bread? Oh, villain, villain! But now I 

know thee, and thank thee for the knowledge. 

Stuke. If you are wise, you shall have cause to 
thank me. 

Mrs. Bev. An injured husband too, shall thank thee. 

Stu/ie. Yet know, proud woman, I have a heart as 
rtubborn as your own; as haughty mid imperious j 
y.;id r.s it loves, so can it hate^ 


Mrs. Bev. Mean, despicable villain I I scorn thee 
and thy threats. Was it for this that Beverley was 
false ? that his too credulous wife should, in despair 
and vengeance, give up her honour to a wretch f But 
he shall know it, and vengeance shall be his. 

Stuke. Why send him for defiance then. Tell him 
I love his wife ; but that a worthless husband forbids 
our union. I'll make a widow of you, and court you 

Mrs. Bev. Oh, coward, coward I thy soul will shrink 
at him. Yet, in the thought of what may happen, I 
feel a woman's fears. Keep thy own secret, and be- 
gone. Who's there ? 

Enter LvCY. * 

Your absence, sir, would please me. 

Stuke. I'll not offend you, madam. 

[Exit Stukely zoit/t. Lucy, 

Mrs. Bev. Why opens not the earth to swallow such 
a monster? Be conscience, then, his punisher, till 
Heaven, in mercy, gives him penitence, or dooms 
him in his justice. 

Pie-enter LuCY. 

Come to my chamber, Lucy; I have a tale to tell 
thee, shall make thee weep for thy poor mistress. 
Yet Heaven the guiltless sufferer regards \ 
And whom it most affUQs it most rewards. [Exeunt 



BeVEP.LEy'5 Lodgings. Enter Mrs. Beverley, 
Charlotte, fl«^ Lewson. 

The smooth-tonguM hypocrite ! 

Lew. But we have tound him, and will requite him 

. Be cheerful, madam; [To Mrs- Bev.] and for 

the insults of this ruffian you shall have ample retri- 

Mrs. Bev. But not by violence Remember, you 

have SAorn it; I had been silent else. 

Lew. You need not doubt me ; I shall be cool as 

Mrs. Bev. See him to-morrow then. 

Lew. And why not now ? By Heaven, the veriest 
worm that crawls is made of braver spirit than this 

Stukely' Yet, for my promise, Til deal gently with 

j^ijxi — I mean to watch his looks — Fiom those, and 
from his answers to my charge, much may be learnt. 
Next I'll to Bates, and sift him to the bottom : if I 
fail there, the gang is numerous, and for a bribe will 

each betray the oiher- Good night; I'll lose no 

tim.e. i^-xit. 

Mrs. Bev These boisteious spirits, how they wound 
me ! But reasoning is in vain. Come, Charlotte^ 
we'll to our usual watch. The niglit grows late. 

Char. I am fearful of events; yet pleased To- 

vnorrow may relieve us. [Qoing., 


Enter Jarvis. 
How now, good jarvis ? 

Jar. I have heard ill news, inadam. 

Mrs. Bev. What news i Speak quickly. 

Jar. Men are not what thev seeia. 1 fear me Mr. 
Stiikely is dishontst. 

C/iar. VVe know it, Jarvis, But what's your news ? 

Jar. That there's an attion against my master, at 
his friend's suit. 

Mrs Bev. Oh, villain, villain! 'twas this he threat- 
ened then. Run to that den of robbers, Wilson's — 
Your master may be there. Entreat him home, good, 
Jarvis. Say 1 have business with him — 3iit tell him 

not of Stukely — It may provoke him to revenge 

Haste, haste, good Jarvis, [Exit Jarvis. 

Ckar. This minister of hell ! Oh, I could tear him 
piece- meal ! 

Mrs. Bev. I am sick of such a world Yet Hea- 
ven is just ; and, in iis own good time, will hurl de- 
stru6tion on such monsters. [^Exeunt. 

SCENE 11. 

Changes to STUKELY'i Lodgings. Enter Stukely and 
Bates meeting. 

Bates. Where have you been ? 
Stuke. Fooling my time away } playing my tricksj 
like a tame monkey, to entertain a woman — No mat- 


ter where — —I have been vexed and disappointed. 
Tell rae of Beverley ; how bore he his last shock ? 

Bates. Like one (so Dawson says) whose senses had 
been numb'd with misery. When all was lost, he 
fixed his eyes upon the ground, and stood some time, 
with folded arms, stupid and motionless ; then 
snatching his sword, that hung against the wainscot, 
he sat him down, and with a look of fix'd attention, 
drew figures on the floor. At last, he started up, 
look'd wild, and trembled ; and, like a woman seized 
with her sex's fits, laughed out aloud, while the tears 
trickled down his face — so left the room, 

Stuke. Why, -this was madness. 

Bates. The madness of despair. 

Stiike. We must confine him then. A prison would 
do well. \_A knocking at the door. '\ Hark 1 that knock- 
ing may be his. Go that way down. [^Exit Bates.]-— 
Who's there ? 

Enter Lewson. 

Lew. An enemy — an open and avowed one. 

Stuke. Why am I thus broke in upon ? This hous« 
is mine, sir; and should protedt me from insult and 

Lezu. Guilt has no place of sanctuary ; wherever 
found, 'tis virtue's lawful game. The fox's hold and 
tyger's den are no security against the hunter. 

Stuke. Your business, sir ? 

Lew. To tell you that I know you Wliy this 

confusion? That look of guilt and terror? Is Be- 

^5 if. THE GAMESTER. 6g 

verley awake ; or has his wife told tales ? The man 
'that dares like yoa, should have a soul to justify his 
deeds, and courage to confront accusers : not, with a 
coward's fear, to shrink beneath reproof. 

Stuke. Who waits there ? lAloud, and in confusion. 

Lew. By Heaven, he dies that interrupts us. \Skul' 
ting the dcor.l You should have weighed your 
strength, sir ; and then, instead of climbing to high 
fortune, the world had marked you for what you are^ 
a little paltry villain. 

Stuke. You think I fear you. 

Lew. 1 know you fear me. This is to prove it. 
l^Pulls him by the sleeve. '\ You wanted privacy — A la- 
dy's presence took up your attention Now we are 

alone, sir. Why, what a wretch I [Fiings him from 
him.'\ The vilest inse<ft in creation will turn when 
trampled on ; yet has this thing undone a man—by 
cunning and mean arts undone him. But we have 
found you, sirj trac'd you through all your laby- 
rinths. If you would save yourself, fall to confes- 
sion : no mercy will be shewn else. 

Stuke. First prove me what you think me—till then, 
your threatenings are in vain— — And for this insult, 
vengeance may yet be mine. 

Levj, Infamous coward I vvhy, take it now then— 

{Drawsy and '^iv^tX^ retires.'] Alas, I pity thee ! 

Yet that a wretch like this should overcome a Bever- 
ley 1 It fills me with astonishment! A wretch, s© 

«iean of soul, that even desperatioa cannot ^xaxosxt 


him to look upon an enemy. You should not have 
thus soar'd, sir, unless, like others of your black pro- 
fession, you had a sword to keep the fools in awe, 
your villany has ruin'd. 

Stuke. Villany ! 'Twere best to curb this licence of 
your tongue; for know, sir, while there are laws, 
this outrage on my reputation will not be borne with. 

Lew, Laws I Dar'st thou seek shelter from the 
laws, those laws which thou and thy infernal crew 
live in the constant violation off Talk'st thou of re- 
putation too, when, under friendship's sacred name, 
thou hast betrayed, robbed, and destroyed ? 

Stuke. Ay, rail at gaming ; 'tis a rich topic, and 

affords noble declamation Go, preach against it 

in the city ; you'll find a congregation in every ta- 
vern. If they should laugh at you, fly to my lord, 
and sermonize it there : he'll thank you, and re- 

Lew. And will example san6lify a vice? No, wretch; 
the custom of my lord, or of the cit that apes him, 
cannot excuse a breach of law, or make the game- 
ster's calling reputable. 

Stuke. Rail on, I say But is this zeal for beg- 
gared Beverley f Is it for him that I am treated thus f 
No ] he and his wife might both have groaned in pri- 
son, had but the sister's fortune escaped the wreck, 
to have rewarded the disinterested love of honest 
Mr. Lewson. 

lew. How I detest thee for the thought! But thou 


art lost to every human feeling. Yet let me tell thee, 
and may it wring thy heart, that the' my friend is 
ruined by thy snares, thou hast unknowingly been 
kind to me. 

Stuke. Have I ? It was, indeed, unknowingly. 

Lew. Thou hast assisted me in love ; given rue the 
- merit that I wanted ; since, but for thee, my Char- 
lotte had not known 'twas her dear self I sigh'd for, 
and not her fortune. 

Siukc. Thank me, and take her then. 

Lew. And, as a brother to poor Beverley, I will 
pursue the robber that has stripped him, and snatch 
him from his gripe. 

Stuke. Then know, imprudent man, he is within my 
gripe ; and should my friendship for him be slan- 
dered once again, the hand that has supplied him 
shall fall and crush him. 

Lew. Why, now there's a spirit in thee I This is 
indeed to be a viUam ! But I shall reach thee yet — 
Fly where thou wilt, my vengeance shall pursue thee 

And Beverley shall yet be sav'dj be sav'd from 

thee, thou monster 1 nor owe his rescue to his wife's 
dishonour. [Exit, 

Stuke. [Parsing.'] Then ruin has enclosed me. — 
Curse on my coward heart ! I would be bravely vil- 
lanous ; but 'tis my nature to shrink at danger, and 
he has found me. Yet fear brings caution, and that 

security More mischief must be done to hide the 

past -Look to yourself, officious Lewson — there 

may be danger stirring How now, Bates? 


Enter Bates, 

Bates. What is the matter? 'Tvvas Levvson, and 
not Beverley, that left you — I heard him loud—- You 
seem alarmed too. 

Stuke. Ay, and with reason We are discovered. 

Bates. I feared as much ; and therefore cautioned 
you. But you were peremptory. 

Stuke. Thus fools talk ever j spending their idle 
breath on what is past, and trembling at the future. 
We itiust be active. Beverley, at worst, is but sus- 
picious; but Lewson's genius, and his hate to me, 
will lay all open. Means must be found to stop him. 
Bates. What means ? 

Stuke. Dispatch him Nay, start not Despe- 
rate occasions call for desperate deeds We live 

but by his death. 

Bates. You cannot mean it ? 
Stuke. I do, by Heaven. 

Bates. Goodnight, then. [Going, 

Stuke. Stay. I must be heard, then answered^- 
Perhaps the motion was too sudden ; and human 
weakness starts at murder, tho* strong necessity com- 
pels it, I have thought long of this j and my first 
feehngs were like yours ; a foolish conscience awed 
me, which soon 1 conquered. The man that would 
undo me, Nature cries out, undo. Brutes know their 
foes by instinCt ; and where superior force is given, 
they use it for destrudion. Shall man do less { Lew- 
fon pursues us to our ruin j and shall we, with the^ 


means to crush him, fly from our hunter, or turn and 
tear him ? *Tis folly even to hesitate. 

Bates. He has obliged me, and I dare not. 

Styke. Why, live to shame then, to beggary and 
punishment. You would be privy to the deed, yet 
want the soul to adt it. Nay, more, had my designs 
been levelled at his fortune, you had stepped in the 

foremost -And what is life .without its comforts ? 

Those you would rob him of, and by a lingering 
death add cruelty to murder. Henceforth adieu to 
half-ii ade villains— There's danger in them. What 

you have got is yours ; keep it, and hide with it 

I'll deal my future bounty to those that merit it. 

Bates. What's the reward > 

Stuke. Equal division of our gains. I swear it, and 
will be just. 

Bates. Think of the means then, 

Stuke. He's gone to Beverley's Wait for him in 

the street— 'Tis a dark night, and fit for mischief. A 
dagger would be useful. 

Bates* He sleeps no more. 

Stuke. Consider the reward. When the deed's 
done, I have farther business with you. Send Daw- 
son to me. 

Bates. Think it already done— and so, farewell. 


Stuke. Why, farewell Lew son, then ; and farewell 
to my fears. This night secures me. I'll wait the 
event within. ^Exit, 



Changes to the Street. Stage darkened. Enter Bevekley, ] 

Bev. How like an out-cast do I wander ? Loaded 
with every curse that drives the soul to desperation — 
The midnight robber, as he walks his rounds, sees 
by the glimmering lamp my frantic looks, and dreads 
to meet me. Whither am I going ? My home lies 
there ; all that i^ dear on earth it holds too ; yet are 
the gates of death more welcome to me — I'll enter it 

no more Who passes there ? 'Tis Lewson He 

meets me in a gloomy hour; and memory tells me he 
has been meddling with my fame. 

Enter Lewson. | 

Lew. Beverley I Well met. I have been busy ia 
your affairs. 

Bev. So I have heard, sir ; and now must thank 
you as I ought. - 

Lew. To-morrow I may deserve your thanks. Late I 
as it is, I go to Bares. Discoveries are making that j 
an arch villain trembles at. ] 

Bev, Discoveries are made, sir, that yoii shall 
tremble at* Where is this boasted spirit, this high 
demeanour, that was to call me to account ? You say 

I have wrong'd my sister Now say as much. But i 

first be ready for defence, as I am for resentment. ' 

[Draws^ A 

Lew. What mean you ? I understand you not* 1 


Bev. The coward's Stale acquaintance! who, when 
he spreads foul calumny abroad, and dreads just ven- 
geance on him, cries out, What mean you ? I under- 
stand you not. 

Lew. Coward and calumny I Whence are those 
words ? But I forgive, and pity you. 

Bev. Your pity had been kinder to my fame. But 
you have traduced it ; told a vile story to the public 
ear, that I have wronged my sister. 

Lew. 'Tis false. Shew me the man that dares ac- 
cuse me. 

Bev. I thought you brave, and of a soul superior 
to low malice; but I have found you, and will have 
vengeance. This is no place for argument. 

Lew^ Nor shall it be for violence. Imprudent man I 
who, in revenge fur fancied injuries, would pierce 
the heart that loves him. But honest friendship a£ls 
from itself, unmoved by slander " or ingratitude. 
*' The life you thirst for shall be employed to serve 
" you. 

** Bev. 'Tis thus you would compound then- . 

" First, do a wrong bevond forgiveness, and, to re™ 
«' dress it, load me with kindnesses unsolicited. I'll 
** not receive it. Your zeal is troublesome. 

" Lew, No matter. It shall be usefid. 

»« Btv. It will not be a:cepted. 

** Lew. It must.'* You know me not. -- 

Bev. Yes, for the slanderer of my fame; who, 
under shew of friendsliip, arraigns me of injustice; 


buzzing in every ear foul breach of trust, and family 

Lew. Have I done this ? Who told you so ? 

Bev. The world 'Tis talked of every where. 

It pleased you to add threats too. You were to call 

me to account Why, do it now, then : I shall be 

proud of such an arbiter. 

Lezv. Put up your sword, and know me better. I 
never injured you. Tlie base suggestion comes from 
Stukely : I see him and his aims. 

Bev. What aims ? I'll not conceal it ; 'twas Stukely 
that accused you. 

Lew. To rid him of an enemy — Perhaps of two — 
He fears discovery, and frames a tale of falsehood, 
to ground revenge and murder on. 

Bev» I must have proof of this. 

Lew. Wait -rill to-morrow then. 

Bev. I will. 

Lew. Good night 1 go to serve you— —Forget 

what's past, as I do ; and cheer your family with 
smiles. To-morrow may confirm them, and make 
all happy. \_Exit, 

Bev. [Pausing.'] How vile, and liow absurd is man I 
His bcasted honour is but another name for pride, 
which easier bears the consciousness of guilt, than 
the world's just reproofs. But 'tis the fashion of the 
times; and in defence of falsehood and false honour 
men die martyrs. I knew not that my nature was so 
bad. [Stands munngr. 


'Enter Bates, and ]akvis. 

Jar, This way the noise wasj and yonder's my 
poor master. 

Bates. I heard him at high words with Lewson. 
The cause I know not. 

Jar, I heard him too. Misfortunes vex him. 

Bates. Go to him, and lead him home. But he 
comes this way I'll not be seen by him. [Exit, 

Bev. [Starting,^ What fellow's that ? [Seeing ]2ixvh.'\ 
Art thou a murderer, friend f Come, lead the way j I 
have a hand as mischievous as thine ; a heart as des- 
perate too Jan vis ! To bed, old man ; the cold 

will chill thee. 

Jar, Why are you wandering at this late hour ? 
Your sword drawn too ? — For Heaven's sake, sheatli 
it, sir — the sight distracts me, 

Bev. Whose voice was that ? [Wildly, 

Jar. 'Twas mine, sir. Let me intreat you to give 
the sword to me. 

Bev. Ay, take it — quickly take it — Perhaps T am 
not so curs'd, but Heaven may have sent thee at this 
moment to snatch me from perdition. 

Jar. Then I am bless'd. ' 

Bev. Continue so, and leave me : my sorrows are 
contagious. No one is bless'd that's near me. 

Jar. \ came to seek you, Fir. 

Bev. And now thou hast found me, leave me — My 
thoughts are wild, and vv'ill not be disturbed, 


Jar. Such thoughts are best disturbed. 

Bev» I tell thee that they will not. Who sent thee 
hither ? 

Jar. My weeping mistress. 

Bev. Am I so meek a husband then, that a com- 
manding wife prescribes my hours, and sends to chide 
me for my absence ? Tell her I'll not return. 

Jar. Those words would kill her. 

Bev. Kill herl Would they not be kind, then? 

But she shall live to curse me 1 have deserved it of 

her. Does she not hate mc, Jarvis ? 

Jar. Alas, sir, forget your griefs, and let me lead 
you to her 1 The streets are dangerous. 

Bev. Be wise, and leave me then. The night's black 
horrors are suited to my thoughts— These stones shall 
be my resting-place. \^Lies dozvn.'\ Here shall my soul 
brood o'er it's miseries, till, v/ith tlie fiends of iiCll, 
and guilty of tlie earth, I start and tremble at the 
morning's light. 

Jar. For pity's sake, sir Upon my knees, I beg 

you to quit this place, and these sad though: s. — Let 

patience, not despair, possess you -Rise, I beseech 

you— — There's not a moment of your absence, tha^ 
my poor mistress does not groan for. 

Bev. Have I undone her, and is she still so kind ? 
{^Starting up.] It is too much — My 'brain cann't hold 
•t — Oh, Jarvjs, how desperate is that wretch's state, 
which only death or madness can relieve. 

7^27-. Appease his mind, good Heaven, and give him 
resignation ! Alas, sir, could beings in the other world 


perceive the events of this, how would your parents 
blessed spirits grieve for you even in Heaven! — Let 
me Qonjure you, by their honoured memories; by 
the sweet innocence of your yet helpless child, and by 
tlie ceaseless sorrows of my poor mistress, to rouse 
your manhood, and struggle with these griefs. 

Bev. Thou virtuous, good old man I thy tears and 
thy entreaties have reached my heart, through all its 

" Jar. Be but resigned, sir, and happiness may yet 
be yours. 

*' Bev, Pr'ythee be honest, and do not flatter mi« 



Jar. I do not, sir.'' — Hark ! I hear voices — Come 
this way ; we may reach home unnoticed. 

Bev. *' Well, lead me then." Unnoticed, didst 

thou say f Alas I dread no looks but of those wretches 
I have made at home ! Oh, had 1 listened to thy ho- 
nest warnings, no earthly blessing had been wanting 

to me ! 1 was so happy, that even a wish for more 

than I possessed, was arrogant presumption. But I 
have warred against the power that blessed mc} and 
now am forced to the hell I merit. \_Exeunt, 


Changes to Stukely's. Enter Stukely and 

Stuke. Come hither, Dawson. My limbs are on the 


rack, and my soul shivers in me, till this night's busi- 
ness be complete. Tell me thy thoughts ; is Bates 
determined, or does he waver ? 

Daw. At first he seemed irresolute ; wished the em-' 
ployment had been mine ; and muttered curses on his 
coward hand, that trembled at the deed. 

Stuke. And did he leave you so ? 

Daw. No; we walked together, and, sheltered by 
the darkness, saw Beverley and Lewson in warm de- 
bate. But soon they cooled, and then I left them to 
hasten hither; but not till 'twas resolved Lewson 
should die, 

Stuke. Thy words have given me life. That quar- 
rel, too, was fortunate ; for, if my hopes deceive me 
not, it promises a grave to Beverley. 

Dazo, You misconceive me. Lewson and he were 

Stuke. But my prolific brain shall make them ene- 
mies. If Lewson falls, he falls by Beverley. i\n up- 
right jury shall decree it. Ask me no question ; but 
do as I dire6t. This writ, \_Takes out a pocket-book.'] for 
some days past, I have treasured here, till a conveni- 
ent time called for its use. That time is come. Take 
it, and give it to an officer. It must be served this in- 
stant. \_Gives a paper. 

Daw. On Beverley 1 

Stuke. Look at it. 'Tis for the sums that T have lent 

Daw. Must he to prison then ? 

Stuke. I asked obedience, not replies. This night 

/^£l y, THE GAMESTER. 77 

a jail must be his lodging. 'Tis probable he's not 
gone home yet. Wait at his door, and see it exe- 

Daw. Upon a beggar ?- He has no means of pay- 


Stuke. Dull and insensible ! — If Lewson dies, who 

was it killed him ? Why, he that was seen qaar- 

relling with him: and I, tliat knew of Beverley's in- 
tents, arrested him in friendship A little late, per- 
haps ; but 'twas a virtuous ait, and men will thank 
me for't. Now, sir, you understand me r 

Dazv. Most perfedly ; and will about it. 

Stuke. Haste, then; and when 'tis done, come back 
and tell me. 

Dazo. Till then, farev/ell. \^Exit. 

Stuke. Now tell thy tale, fond wife ! And, Lewson,. 
if agam thou canst insult me, *' Fll kneel, and ovva 
*' thee for my master." 

Not avarice noWy but vengeance Jires my breast, 

And one short hour must make me curs'd or bless'd. 



Continues. £nf^r Stukely, Bates, c/zi Davidson. 


Poor Lewson I But I told you enough last night. 

The thought of him is horrible to me. 
G lij 


Stuke. In the street, did you say ? And no one near 
him ? 

Bates, By his own door ; he was leading me to 
his house. I pretended business with liiifl, and stab- 
bed him to the heart, while he was reaching at the 

Stuke. And did he fall so suddenly ? 

Bates. The repetition pleases yo\i, I see. I told yoa 
he fell without a groan. 

Stuke. What heard you of him this morning? 

Bates. That the watch found him in their rounds, 
and alarmed the servants. I mingled with the crowd 

just now, and saw him dead in his own house The 

sight terrified me. 

Stuke, Away with terrors, till his ghost rise and ac- 
cuse us. We have no living enemy to fear, unless 
'tis Beverley; and him we have lodged safe in pri- 

Bates. Must he be murdered too ? 

Stuke. No; I jiave a scheme to make the law his 
murderer. At what hour did Lewson fall ? 

Bates, The clocic struck twelve as I turned to leave 
him. 'Twas a melancholy bell, I thought, tolling for 
his death. 

Stuke, The time was lucky for us Beverlev vvas 

arrested at one, you say ? [To Dawson. 

Daw. ExaPiiy. 

Stuke. Good. We'll talk of this presently. Tlie 
women were with him, I think? 

Darjj. And old Jarvis. I would have told vou of. 


them last night, but your thoughts were too busy. — 
'Tis well you have a heart of stone j the tale would 
melt it else. 

Stuke. Out with it, tlien. 

Daw. I traced him to his lodgings; and, pretend- 
ing pity for his misfortunes, kept the door open, while 
the officers seized him. 'Tvvas a damned deed — but 
no matter 1 followed my instructions. 

Stuke. And what said he ? 

Daw. He upbraided me vvith treachery, called you 
a villain, acknowledged the sums you had lent him, 
«nd submitted to his fortune. 

Stuhe. And the women 

DazD. For a few minutes astonishment kept them 
iiknt. They looked wildly at one another, while the 
tears streaming down their cheeks. But rage and 
fury soon gave th.em words; and then, in the very 
bitterness of despair, they cursed me, and the monster 
that had employed me, 

Stuke. And you bore it with philosophy ? 

Dazv. 'Till the scene changed, and then I melted. 
I ordered the ofricers to take away their prisoner. The 
women shrieked and would have followed him j but 
we forbade them, 'Twas then ihey fell upon their 
knees, the wife fainted, the sister raving, and both, 
vvith all the eloquence of misery, endeavouring to 
soften us. I never felt compassion till that moment; 
and had the officers been moved like me, we had left 
the business undone, and fled with curses on our- 
selves. But their hearts were steeled by custom. 


The tears of beauty, and the pangs of affe61ion were 
beneath their pity. They tore him from their arms, 
and lodged him in prison, with only Jarvis to comfort 

Stuke. There let him lie, 'till we have farther busi- 
ness with him *' And for you, sir, let me hear no 

<< more of your compassion A fellow nursed in 

** villany, and employed from childhood in the busi- 
" ness of hell, should have no dealings with com- 
** passion. 

*< Daw. Say you so, sir ? — You should have named 
** the devil that tempted me . 

*' Stuke. 'Tis false. I found you a villain, and 
" therefore employed you — but no more of this — We 
** have embarked too far in mischief to recede. Lew- 
*' son is dead, and we are all principals in his murder. 
<* Think of that — There's time enough for pity when 

" ourselves are out of danger Beverley still lives, 

*' though in a gaol — His ruin will sit heavy on him; 
** and discoveries may be made to undo us all. Son.e- 

*' thing must be done, and speedily. You saw him 

*' quarrelling with Lewson in the street last night. 

- ** Bates. I did j his steward, Jarvis, saw him too.v 
, . ** Stuke. And shall attest it. Here's matter to work 
** upon. — An unwilling evidence carries weight with 
*' him." Something of my design I have hinted t'you 
before — Beverley must be the author of this murder; 
and we the parties to convift him— -But how to pro- 
ceed wUl require time and thought= .Come along 


vi'ith me ; the room within is fitted for privacy — But 
no compassion, sir [To Dawson.] — We want iersiire 
for't This way. {Exeunt » 

SCENE 11. 

Changes, to BEVERLEY'i Lodgings. Enter Mrs. Bever« 
LEY and Charlotte. 

Mrs. Bev. No news of Lewson yet ? 

C/iar. None. He went out early, and knows not 
what has happened. 

Mrs. Bev. The clock strikes eight: I'll wait n» 


Char. Stay but 'till Jarvis comes. He has sent twice 
to stop us 'till we see him. 

Mrs, Bev. I have no life in this separation Oh, 

what a night was last night I I would not pass another 

such to purchase worlds by it My poor Beverley 

too I What must he have felt ? The very thought 

<listra6ts me- To have him torn at midnight from 

me 1 A loathsome prison his habitation! A cold damp 
room his lodging! The bleak winds perhaps blowing 
upon his pillow ! No fond wife to lull him to his rest I 
and no refleiitions but to wound and tear him! ■ » 

*Tis too horrible 1 wanted love for him, or they 

had not forced him from me. They should have 

parted soul and body first-— I was too tame. 

Ciar. You must not talk so,~Ali tha,t we cculd 


we did ; and Jarvis did the rest — The faithful creattira 
will give him comfort, Why does he delay coming? 

Mrs. Bev. And there's another fear. His poor mas- 
ter may be claiming the last kind office from him — 
His heart perhaps is breaking. 

Char, See where he comes — His looks are cheerful 

Enter Jarvis, 

Mrs. Bev. Are tears then cheerful ? Alas, he weeps! 
Speak to him, Charlotte — — I have no tongue to ask*- 
him quesions. 

Char. How does your master, Jarvis ? 

Jar. I am old and foolish, madam j and tears will 
come before ray words—- But don't you weep ; \To 
Mrs. Bev.] I have a tale of joy for you. 

Mrs. Bev. What tale? Say but he's well, and I 

have joy enough. 

Jar, His mind too shall be well — all shall be well 
— I have news for him, that will make his poor heart 

bound again Fie upon old age — --How childish it 

makes me ! I have a tale of joy for you, and my tears 
drown it. 

Char, Shed them in showers then, and make haste 
to tell it. 

Mrs, Bev. What is it, Jarvis ? 

Jar. Yet why should I rejoice when a good maa 
^ies ? Your uncle, madam, died yesterday. 

Mrs. Bev. My uncle !— — .Oh, Heavens I 


Char, How heard you of his death ? 

Jar, His stcv.ard cane cxpre-s, madam — I inet him 
in the street, fiiqiur'.ng for your lodgings — I should 
not rcj<jice perh^'^ps — but he was old, and my poor 
master a pr -> ei— N w lie shall live a<;ain — Oh, *tis 
a brave fortui» - ! .md 'tv\as death to me to see him a 

Char Where left you the steward ? 

Jar I would not bring him hitner, to be a witness 
of yorr d stiesses ; and besides," 1 wanted, once before 
1 u.e, tu t e the nie.>ser,^ej ot joy to you. My good 
ma^'fi vvi.l ce a man a;^ m. 

Mrs tcv. Hasie, nasie then ; and let us fly to him I 
Wc- are aeiayijig our own h: ppiness. 

Jar. 1 had fcT^oc u coacn, madam, and Lucy has 
ordered one. 

Mn. Bev. Whfie was ihe need of that ? The news 
has given me winj^^. 

C/iar. I have uu joy, 'ti'l my poor brother shares it 
with me. How did lie },ass the mghr, Jarvis i 

Jar. Why now, iiiadam, i can tell you. Like a man 
dreaming of death ana hurroi s. When they led him 
to his ceil — For 'twas a poor apartment for my mas- 
ter — He flung himself upon a wretched bed, and lay 
speechless 'till day-break. A sigh now and then, and 
a few tears that follow those si ,hs, were all that tuld 
me he was alive. I spoke to him, but he would not 
hear me ; and when I persisted, he raised his hand at 

me, and knit his brow so 1 thought he would have 

struck me. 


Mrs. Bev. Oh, miserable! but what said he, Jarvis ? 
Or was he silent all night ? 

Jar. At day-break he stijrted from the bed, and 
looking wildly at me, asked who I was. I told him, 
and bid him be of comfort — —Begone, old w^retch, 

says he 1 havCsworn never to know comfort.-— 

Nly wife ! my child I my sister! I have imdone them 
all, and will know no comfort. Then falling upon his 
knees, he imprecated curses upon himself. 

Mrs. Be7j. This is too horrible !• — -^But you did not 
leave him so ? 

Char. No, I am sure he did not. 

Jar. I had not the heart, madam. By degrees I 
brought him to himself. A shower of tears came to 
his relief ; and he called me his kindest friend, and 

begged forgiveness of me like a child. My heart 

throbbed so, I could not speak to him. He turned 
from me for a minute or two, and suppressing a few 

bitter sighs, enquired after his wretched family. 

c( Wretched was his word, madam — Asked how you 
** bore the misery of last night — If you had the gcod- 
*' ness to see him in prison : and then begged me to 
" hasten to you. I told him he must be more himself 
*' first- — He premised me he would ; and bating a few 
*' sudden intervals, he became composed and easy— 
*< And then I left him ; but not without an attendant 
*' — a servant in the prison whom I hired to wait 

** upon him — 'Tis an hour since we parted 1 was 

*' prevented in my haste to be the messenger of joy 
** ^o you." 


Mrs. Bev. What a tale is this ? — But we have staid 
too long '* A coach is needless. 

*' Char. Hark! I hear one at the door," 

Jar. " And Lucy comes to tell us" We'll a'.vay 

this moment. 

Mrs. Bev- To comfort him, or die with him. [fx. 


'' Changes to Stukely'^ Lodgings. Enter Stukely, 
"Bates, aw^ Dawson. 

*< Stuke, Here's presumptive evidence at least — or 
" if we want more, why we must swear more. But 
** all unwillingly — We gain credit by reluftance — I 
** have told you how to proceed. Beverley must die 

" We hunt him in view now, and must not 

" slacken in the chace. 'Tis either death for him, or 
*' shame and punishment for us. Think of that, and 
** remember your instructions — You, Bates, must to 
** the prison immediately. I would be there but a 
** few minutes before you; and you, Dawson, must 
*' follow in a few minutes after. So here we divide 

** But answer me ; are you resolved upon this 

*' business like men > 

<* Bates. Like villains rather — But you may depend 
** upon us. 

** Stuke. Like what we are then— You make no an- 
" swer, Dawson — Compassion, I suppose, has seized 
<* you. 



*' Daw. No; I have disclaimed it— —My answer 
<* is Bates's You may depend upon me. 

*' Stake. Consider the reward ! Riches and secu- 
** rity 1 I have sworn to divide with you to the last 

** shilling So here we separate till we meet in pri- 

** son Remember your instru6tions, and be men. 

«* [Exeunt,'' 


Changes to a Prison. Beverley is discovered sitting. 
After a short pause, he starts np, and comes forward. 

Bev. Why, there's an end then, I have judged de- 
liberately, and the result is death. How the self- 
murderer's account may stand, I know not. But 
this I know — the load of hateful life oppresses me too 
much — The horrors of my soul are more than I can 

bear — [Offers to kneeL'\ Fatlier of mercy I- 1 cannot 

pray Despair has laid his iron hand upon me, and 

sealed me for perdition Conscience! Conscience! 

thy clamours are too loud Here's that shall silence 

thee. [Takes a phial out. of his pockety and looks at it.] 
Thou art most friendly to the miserable. Come 

then, thou cordial for sick minds Come to my 

heart. [Drinks.] Oh, that the grave would bury me- 
mory as well as body ! For if the soul sees and feels 
the sufferings of these dear ones it leaves behind, the 
Everlasting has no vengeance to torment it deeper — 
I'll think no more on't — Refleflion comes too late — ■ 


Once there was a time for't — but now 'tis past.— — 
Who's tliere ? 

Enter ]\KYis. 

Jar. One that hoped to see you with better looks — 
Why d'you turn so from me ? I have brought com- 
fort with me. And see who comes to give it wel- 

Bev. My wife and sister! Why, 'tis but one pang 
more then, and farewell world. \_Aside, 

Enter Mrs. Beverley and Charlotte. 

Mrs. Btv. Where is he ? \Runs and embraces him.'\ 
Oh, 1 have him I I have him ! And now they shall 
never part us more — I have news, love, to make you 
happy for ever *' But don't look coldly on me. 

*' Char. How is ir, brother? 

*' Mrs, Bev.*'' Alas! he hears us not Speak to 

me, love. I have no heart to see you thus. 

Bev. " Nor I to bear the sense of so much shame'* 
—This is a sad place ! 

Mrs. Bev. We came to take you from it. To tell 
you the world goes well again. That Providence has 
seen our sorrows, and sent the means to help them— 
Your uncle died yesterday. 

Bev. My uncle ! — No, do not say so! — Oh, I am 
sick at heart 1 

Mrs. Bev. Indeed! — I meant to bring you comfort. 

Bev. Tell me he lives then If you would bring 

me comfort, tell me he lives. 


Mrs. Bev. And if I did — I have no power to raise 
the dead He died yesterday. 

Bev. And I am heir to him ? 

Jar. To his whole estate, sir But bear it pa- 
tiently — pray bear it patiently, 

Bev. Well, well — \^Pausirig.'\ Why, fame says I 
am rich then ? 

Mrs. Bev. And truly so ^Why do you look so 

wildly ? 

Be-o. Do I ? The news was unexpected. But lias 
lie left me all ? 

Jar, All, all, sir — He could not leave it from you. 

Bev. I am sorry for it. 

*^ Cfiar. Sorry I Why sorry? 

** Bev, Your uncle's dead, Charlotte. 

" Char. Peace be with his soul then — Is it so ter- 
** rible that an old man should die ? 

*' Bev. He should have been immortal." 

Mrs. Bev. " Heaven knows I wished not for his 
** death. 'Twas the will of Providence that he should 
« die" Why are you disturbed so ? 

Bev. Has death no terrors in it ? 

Mrs. Bev. Not an old man's death. Yet if it trou- 
bles you, I wish him living. 

Bev. And I, with all my heart. 

" Char. Why, what's the matter ? 

** Bev. Nothing — How heard you of his death ? 

*' Mrs, Bev. His steward came express. Would I 
*? had never known it!" 

Bev. *' Or had heard it one day sooner"- Fori 

^^ f^ THE GAMESTER.. 8^ 

have a tale to tell, shall turn you into stone ; or, if 
the power of speech remain, you shall kneel down 
and curse me. 

Mrs. Bev. Alas 1 what tale is this ? And why are 
we to curse you— I'll bless you for ever. 

Brj. No ; I have deserved no blessings. The 
world holds not such another wretch. All this large 
fortune, this second bounty of Heaven, that might 
have healed our sorrows, and satisfied our utmost 
hopes, in a cursed hour 1 sold last night. 
Char. Soldi How sold? 
Mrs. Bev. Impossible 1— It cannot be ! 
Bev. That devil Stukely, with all hell to aid him,r 
tempted me to the deed. To pay false debts of ho- 
nour, and to redeem past errors, I sold the reversion 
Sold it for a scanty sum, and lost it among vil- 

Char. Why, farewell all then. 
Bev. Liberty and life—Come, kneel and curse me. 
Mrs. Bev. Then hear me. Heaven! lKneels.-\ Look 
down with mercy on his sorrows! Give softness to 
his looks, and quiet to his heart ! Take from his me^ 
mory the sense of what is past, and cure him of de- 
spair 1 On me! on me ! if misery imist be the lot of 
either, multiply misfortunes ! I'll bear them patient- 
ly, so lie is happy I These hands shall toil for his 
support! These eyes be lifted up for hourly blessings 
on him! And every duty of a fond and faithful wife 
be doubly done to cheer and comfort him 1— So hear 
mei So reward me I L^"^' 



Bev. I would kneel too, but that offended Heaven 
would turn my prayers into curses. * " What have I 
" to ask for! I, who have shook hands with hope ? 
«' Is it for length of days that 1 should kneel ? No ; 
'' my time is limited. Or is it for this world's bles! 
<* sings upon you and yours ? To pour out my heart 
" in wishes for a ruined wife, a child, and sister ? 
" Oh, no !" for I have done a deed to make life hor- 
rible to you . 

" Mrs. Bev. Why horrible ? Is poverty so hor- 
<* rible r— -The real wants of life are kw, A little 
«* industry will supply them all— And cheerfulness 
^' will follow_It is the privilege of honest industry, 
<* and we'll enjoy it fully. 

«' Bev, Never, never— Oh, I have told you but in 
" pait. The irrevocable deed is done." 

Mrs. Bev. What deed ?— ** And why do you look 
** so at me? 

" Bev. A deed that dooms my soul to vengeance— 
" That seals your misery here, and mine hereafter. 

" Mrs, Bev. No, no ; you liave a heart too good 
"for't-AlasI he raves, Charlotte— His looks too 
*' terrify me— Speak comfort to him— He can have 
** done no deed of wickedness. 

*' Char. And yet I fear the worst What is it. 

Bev. A deed of horror. 

Jar. Ask him no questions, madam— This last mis. 
fortune has hurt his brain, A little time will give 
him patience. 


Enter Stukely. 

Bev. Why is this villain here ? 

Stuke. To give you liberty and safety. There, ma- 
dam's, his discharge. [Giving a paper to Mrs. Bever- 
ley.] Let him fly this moment. The arrest last night 
was meant in friendship ; but came too late. 

Char, What mean you, sir f 

Stuke. The arrest was too late, I say ; I would have 
kept his hands from blood, but was too late. 

Mrs. Bev. His hands from blood 1 — Whose blood ? 
— Oh, wretch I wretch I 

StuAe. From Lewson's blood. 

CAar. No, villain I Yet what of Lewson ? Speak 

StuAe. You are ignorant then 1 I thought I heard 
the murderer at confession. 

Char. What murderer ? — And who is murdered ? 
Not Lewson ? — Say he lives, and I'll kneel and wor- 
ship you. 

Stuke. In pity, so I would ; but that the tongues 
of all cry murder. I came in pity, not in malice ; 
to save the brother, not kill the sister. Your Lew- 
son's dead. 

Char. O horrible ! " Why who has killed him ? 
*' And yet it cannot be. What crime had he com- 
<' mitted that he should die ? Villain I he lives 1 he 
" lives I and shall revenge these pangs. 

*' Mrs. Bev. Patience, sweet Charlotte 1 

** Char. O, 'tis too much fur patience 1 


** Mrs. Bev. He eomes in pity, he says 1 O, ex- 
*' ecrable villain ! The friend is killed then, and this 
** the murderer ?" 

Bev. Silence, I charge you. — — Proceed, sir. 

Stuke, No. Justice may stop the tale — and here'* 
an evidence. 

Enter Bates. 

Bates. The news, I see, has reached you. But 
take comfort, madam. [To Char.] There's one with- 
out enquiring for you. — Go to him, and lose no time. 

Char. O misery I misery ! [Exit. 

Mrs. Bev. Follow her, Jarvis. If it be true that 
Lewson's dead, her grief may kill her. 

Bates. Jarvis must stay here, madam. I have some 
questions for him. 

Stuke. Rather let him fly. His evidence may crush 
his master. 

Bev. Why ay ; this looks like management. 

Bates. He found you quarrelling with Lew son in 
the streets last night. [To Bev. 

Mrs. Bev. No ; I am sure he did not. 

Jar, Or if I did 

Mrs. Bev. 'Tis false, old man-— They had no quar- 
rel J there was no cause for quarrel. 

Bev. Let him proceed, I say- Oh I I am sick I 

sick 1 — Reach a chair. [He sits down. 

Mrs. Bev. You droop and trei;nble, love. Your 

eyes are fixed too Yet you are innocent. If 

Lewson's dead, you killed him not. 

^g y^ THE GAMESTER. 93 

J5:«fer Dawson. 

Stuke. Who sent for Dawson ? 
Bates. 'Twas I We have a witness too you lit- 
tle think of Without there \ 

Stuke. What witness ? 

Bates. A right one. Look at him. 

Enter Lewson and Charlo tte. 

Stuke. Lewson I O villains ! villains 1 

[To Bates and Dawson. 

Mrs. Bev. Risen from the dead I Why, this is un- 
expefted happiness! 

Char. Or is't his ghost ? [To Stukely.] That sight 
would please you, sir. 

Jar. What riddle's this ? 

Bev. Be quick and tell it~My minutes are but 


Mrs. Bev. Alas ! why so ? You shall live long and 

happily. ^ 

Lew. While shame and punishment shall rack that 
viper. [Pointivg to Stukely.] The tale is short— I was 
too busy in his secrets, and therefore doomed to die. 
Bates, to prevent the murder, undertook it— I kept 
aloof to give it credit. 

Char. And give me pangs unutterable. 

Lew. I felt 'em all, and would have told you 

But vengeance wanted ripening. The villain's scheme 
was but half executed. The arrest by Dawson fol- 
lowed the supposed murder And now, depending 


on his once wicked associates, he comes to fix the 
guiJt on Beverley. 

Mrs. Bev. O! execrable wretch! 

Bates. Dawson and 1 are witnesses of this. 

Lew. And of a thousand frauds. His fortune 
ruined by sharpers and false dice; and Stukely sole 
contriver and possessor of all. 

Dazv. Had he but stopped on this side murder, we 
had been villains still. 

Mrs. Bev. Thus Heaven turns evil into good : and 
by permitting sin, warns men to virtue. 

Lew. Yet punishes the instrument. So shall our 
laws; tho' not with death. But death were mercy. 
Shame, beggary, and imprisonment, unpitied misery, 
the stings of conscience, and the curses of mankind 
shall make life hateful to him — till at last his own 
hand end him — How does my friend ? [To Bev. 

Bev. Why well. Who's he that asks me ? 

Mrs. Bev. 'Tis Levvson, love Why do you look 

so at him ? 

Bev. They told me he was murdered. [Wildly, 

Mrs. Bev. Ay ; but he lives to save us. 

Bev. Lend me your hand — The room turns round, 

Mrs. Bev. O Heaven I 

Lew. This villain here disturbs him. Remove him 

from his sight And for your lives see that you 

guard him. [Stukely is taken off by Dawson and Bates.] 
How is it, sir ? 

Bev. 'Tis here- and here. [Pointing to his head 

€,nd heart. '\ And now it tears me ! 


Mrs. Bev. You feel convulsed too What is'fc 

disturbs you? 

" Lew. This sudden turn of joy, perhaps He 

** wan^s rest too Last night was dreadful to him. 

** His brain is giddy. 

*^ Char. Ay, never to be cured Why, brother! 

« — O ! I fear ! I fear I 

** Mrs. Bev. Preserve him, Heaven !" — My love ! 
my life 1 look at me ! How his eyes flame I 

Blv. a furnace rages in this heart ** I have 

*' been too hasty. 

«* Mrs. Bev. Indeed ! O me ! O me ! Help, 

*' Jarvis ! Fly, fly for help 1 Your master dies else, 
*' — Weep not, but fly ! \_Exit Jarvis.] What is this 

" hasty deed r — Yet do not answer me My fears 

*' have guessed. 

" Bev. Call back the messenger *Tis not in me» 

** dicine's power to help me. 

*' Mrs. Bev. Is it then so ? 

^^ Bev." Down, restless flames! [Laying his 

hand on his heart.'] down to your native hell 

There you shall rack me — O ! for a pause from pain I 

^^ Mrs. Bev. Help, Charlotte I Support him, sirl 
*' [To Lewson.] This is a killing sight ! 

*' Bev. That pang was well — It has numbed my 
"senses." Where's my wife? Can you for- 
give me, love ? 

Mrs. Bev. Alas! for what ? 

** Bev. [Starting again.'] And there's another pang 
" Now all is quiet — Will yow forgive me ? 


" Mrs. Bev. I will- tell me for what ?*' 

Bev. For meanly dying. 

Mrs. B^ev, No -— - do not say it. 

Bev. As truly as my soul must answer it. Had 

Jarvis staid this morning, all had been well. But 
pressed by shame — pent in a prison — tormented with 
my pangs for you — driven to despair and madness — I 
took the advantage of his absence, corrupted tha poor 
wretch fie left to guard me, and — swallowed poison. 

Mrs. Bev. O fatal deed 1 

Ckar. Dreadful and cruel ! 

Bev. Ay, most accursed — And now I go to my ac- 
count. ** This rest from pain brings death ; yet 'tis 
** Heaven's kindness to me. I wished for ease, a mo- 
** ment's ease, that cool repentance and contrition 

** might soften vengeance." Bend me, and let me 

kneel. ^Tkg' lift Mm from his chair y and support him on 
his Anecs.'] I'll pray for you too. Thou Power that 
madest me, hear me! If for a life of frailty, and this 
too hasty deed of death, thy justice dooms me, here 
I acquit the sentence. But if enthroned in mercy 
where thou sittest, thy pity has beheld me, send me 
a gleam of hope; that in these last and bitter mo- 
ments my soul may taste of comfort ! and for these 
mourners here, O! let their lives be peaceful, and 

their deaths happy 1 ** Now raise me." 

[They lift him to the chair. 

Mrs. Bev. Restore him. Heaven 1 Stretch fortli thy 
arm omnipotent, and snatch him from the grave !— 
O save him ! save him I or let me die to9. 


' ** Bev, Alas! that prayer is fruitless. Already 

" death has seized me — Yet Heaven is gracious -I 

** asked for hope, as the bright presage of forgiveness, 
** and Hke a light, blazing through darkness, it came 
" and cheered me — 'Twas all I lived for," and now I 

*« Mrs. Bev. Not yet l—Not yet!— Stay but a little 
« and I'll die too." 

Bev. No ; live, I charge you. — We have a Atle one. 
— Tho' I have left him, you will not leave him. — To 
Lewson's kindness I bequeath him. — Is not this Char- 
lotte? — We have lived in love, tho* I have wronged 
you. Can you forgive me, Charlotte } 

Char. Forgive you! O my poor brother! 

Bev. " Lend me your hand, love So — raise me 

" No 'twill not be My life is finished — " 

O ! for a few short moments, to tell you how my heart 
bleeds for you — That even now, thus dying as I am, 
dubious and fearful of hereafter, my bosom pang is for 
your miseries, support her, Heaven I — And now I go 
O, mercy 1 mercy I \_Dies» 

Lew. Then all is over— *— How is it, madam ?— • 
My poor Charlotte too ! 

Erder Jarvis. 
** Jar, How does my master, madam ? Here's help 

*•' at hand' Am I too late then ? [Seeing Bev. 

^^ Char. Tears! tears 1 why fall you not O 

*' wretched sister 1 Speak to her, Lewson— — ' 

Her grief is speechless. 



Lew. " Remove her from this sight^ — Go to her, 
*' Jarvis — Lead and support her." Sorrow like hers^ 

forbids complaint Words are for lighter griefs — 

Some ministering angel bring her peace I [Jar. and 
Char, lead her off,'] And thou, poor breathless corpse^ 
may thy departed soul have found the rest it prayed 
fori Save but one error, and this last fatal deed, thy 
life was lovely. Let frailer minds take warning; and 
from example learn, that want of prudence is want of 

Follies, if uncoJitrouP dy of every kind, 
Grow into passionsy and subdue the mind ; 
With sense and reason hold superior strife. 
And conquer honour, nature, fame and life, 

[Exeunt omnes. 


Written by a Friend. 

On every gamester in th' Arabian nation^ 
' Tis said that Mahomet denounced damnation : 
But in return for wicked cards and dice., 
He gave ^em black ey''d girls in Paradise, 
Should he thus preachy good countrymeny toyouy 
His converts would^ Ifo-r^ be mighty few y 
So much your hearts are set on sordid gain^ 
The brightest eyes around yov. shine in vain. 
Should the most Heavenly beauty bid you take her^ 

You'd rather hold two aces and a maker. 

By your example^ our poor sex drawn in. 

Is guilty of the same unnatWal sin ; 

The study now of ev^ry girl of parts , 

Is how to win your money, not your hearts. 

0! in what sweet, what ravishing delights 

Our beaux and belles together pass their nights / 

By ardent perturbations kepi awake. 

Each views with longing eyes the other's — stake. 

The smiles and graces are from Britain fown^ 

Our Cupid is an errant sharper grown. 

And Fortune sits on Cytherea's throne. 

In all these things, tho* women may be blam'dy 

Sure men, the wiser men, should be asham'd I 


uind His a horrid scandal^ I dedarcy 
That four strange queens should rival all the fair ; 
Four jilts with neither beauty y wit, nor parts, 
shame ! have got possession of their hearts : 
And those bold sluts, for all their queenly pride. 
Have plafd loose tricks^ or else they'' re much belfd. 
Cards zvere at first for benefits designed. 
Sent to amuse, and not enslave the mind* 
From good to bad how easy the transition ! 
For what was pleasure once, is now perdition. 
Fair ladies, then, these wicked gamesters shun. 
Whoever weds cm, is, you see, undone. 


^cL m. T fuf: jD o r jjxe Ojyr.]L.A::^T . 

a^^W. ' jLmJL iL2£,^VJ>S asJlyiO-A^ • V, 

/ dj.i:f]k . 

^^rrvri./ /,^// /zotv /o u^riU /c ./// // /,J,/ An./ i/ou . ,,ii/,l 












By Permiiiion of the Managers, 

The Lines distinguished by inverred Commas, are omitted in the Representation." 


Printed for the Proprietors y under the DireBion of 

John Belx, ^txti^'tMlXl, Strand, 

Bookselisr to Kis Royal Highness the PuiNCEof Wales. 



Could thosey who never trfd^ conceive the sweat. 

The toil requirdi to make a Play complete ; 

They'd pardon, or encourage all that could 

Pretend to he but tolerably good. 

Ploty WiL) and Humour's hard to meet in one^ 

Andyety without 'em all — —aWs lamely done : 

One Wit, perhaps, another Humour paints ; 

A third designs you welly but Genius wants j 

A fourth begins withjire^buty ah ! too weak to hold itj, 

A modern Bard^ who late adorn d the bays. 
Whose muse advanced his fame to envy'd praise. 
Was still observed to want his judgment most inplayu 
Those, he too often found, required tiie pain^ 
And stronger forces of a vigrous brain : 
Nay, even altered Plays, like old houses mended. 
Cost little less than new, before they're ended. 
At least, our Author fnds the experience true. 
For equal pains has maae this wholly new : 
And tho' the Name seems old, the bcenes will shot£ 
That 'tis, m fatty no more ike same^ than now 
Famd Chatsworth is, what 'iojas sone years ago,. 
Pardon the boldness, that a Piuy sn uld dare. 
With werhs q sq muck wondtr to cw^an : 


But as that fabric's ancient^ walls or wood 

'Were little worthy to make this new one good; 

So of this Play^ we hopCy Uis understood. 

For tho'' from former Scenes some hints he draws, 

The gromid-ploVs wholly chang' dfrom what it was : 

Not but he hopes you' II fnd enough thaCs new, 

In plat, in persons, wit, and humour too : 

Yet whaCs not his, he owns in other's right. 

Nor toils he now for fame, but your delight. 

If thaVs attain" d, whafs the matter whose the Play''si 

Applaud the Scenes, and strip him of the praise. 


This Play was at first vehemently disapproved by 
the audience, in short, run down ; two years after, 
it found such an audience as it deserved, and has con- 
tinued a stock play ever since 1709. 

Col LEY Gibber, who always borrowed from 
every body that could lend, has here made free with 
Mrs. Centlivre's Love at a Fenhirey or the French 
play of the same title, as his own ; and also with some- 
thing from Burnaby's Vhiiing Day. 

Managers of Companies who write, obje6t to this 
pradice in every author but themselves. 

Dram3ti0 513?rrcn3e. 


Sir Solomon Sat>life, » „ - Mr. Quick. 

C/.KRiMONT, Mr. Macready, 

Catelsss, - , , . „ - Mr. Farren. 
Atall, - - . . . . Mr. Lewis. 

Old Mr. Wilful, - - - - Mr. Cubitt. 

Sir Harry Atall, ... - Mr. Thompson, 
SuppjE, ... ... Mr. Cross. 

Dr. Blister, . « , . .Mr. Powell. 
Rhubarb, - - . . . - Mr. C. Powell. 
Finder, - - - , . . Mr. Bernard. 

Lady Dainty, - - . - Mrs. Mattocks. 

LadySADLTFE, . . . - Mrs. Pope. 

Clauinda, Mrs. Bernard. 

S^^."^'_^' - I- . - - - Mrs. Merry. 
V/ishwell, -■ . . . - Mrs. Harlowe. 
^^■^^'^» Miss Stuart. 



Tne Park, Enter Clerimont a?id Atall. 

AIr. -^tall, your veiy humble servant. 

At. O, Clerimont, Such an i-.dventure I I wa«? just 
goic;: to your lodgings ; such a transiiorring accident ! 
in si-yrt, ! am now positively in love for altogetlier. 

Qer. All the sex togerherj 1 believe. 

At,, Nay, if thou dost not believe me^ and stand my 
friend, I am ruin'd past redemption. 

C/er. Dear sir, if i stand your friend without be- 
lieving you, won't that do as well ? But why should 
you think I don't believe you i I have seen you tvvice 
in love within this fortnight ; and it would be liard 
indeed to suppose a heart of so much metile could not 
hold out a ihird engagement. 

At. TThen, to be serious, in one word, I am ho- 
nourably in love J and, if she proves the woman I 
am sure she iiiUit, will positively marry her. 
B Jj 


C/er. Marry ! O degenerate virtue ! 

^t. Now, will j'o'ii help me ? 

C/er. Sir, you may depend upon me. Pray pve me 
leave first to ask a question or two. What is this 
honourable lady's name ? 

At. Faith, I don't know. 

Cier. What are her parents > 

^t. I cann't tell. 

Cier. Wiiat fortune has she I 

"■it. I don't know. 

CUr. Where does she live ? 

At. I cann't tell. 

CUr. A very concise account of the person you de- 
sign to marry. Pray, sir, what is it you do know of 
her ? 

^t That I'll tell you. Coming yesterday from 
Greenwich by water, I overtook a pair'of oars, whose 
lovely freight was one single lady, and a fellow in a 
handsome iivery in the stern. When I came up, I 
had at fir^t resolved to use the privilege of the ele^ 
ment, and bail her with waterman's wit, till I came 
to the bridge ; bur, as suon as she saw me, she very 
prudently prevented my design; and, as I passed, 
bowed to me with an humble blush, that spoke at 
once such sense, so just a fear, and modesty, as put 
the loosest of my thoughts to rout. And when she- 
found her fears had moved me into manners, the cau- 
tious gloom that sat upon her beauties disappeared ; 
her sparkling eyes resumed their native fire; she 
looked, she smiled, she talked, while her diffusive 


charms ntw fired mv heart, and gave my soul a soft- 
ness it never fcU beiore, To be brief, her conver- 
sation vvas as clui! ming as her person, both easy, iin-- 
constrained, and sprightly : but then her hmbs 1 O 
rapturous thought i The snowy down upon the win^s 
of unfledged icve had never lialf that softness. 

Ucr. Raptures indeed. Pray, sir, how came you 
so well rccaainted wirh her limbs f 

M, By the most fortunate misfortune sure that 
ever was; for, as we were shooting the bridge, her 
boat, by the negUgence of the waterman, running 
agains: the piles, was overset; out jumps the foot- 
man o take care of a single rogue, and down went 
the poor lady to the bottom. My boat being before 
her, the stream drove her, by the help of her clothes, 
toward me; at sight of her I pkmged in, caught her 
in my arms, and, with much ado, supported her till 
mv waterman pulled in to save us. But the charming 
d'fficulry of her getting into the boat, gave me a 
transport that all the wide water in the Thames had 
not power to cool ; for, sir, while 1 wa^ giving her a 
lift into the boa-^, 1 found the floating of her clothes 
had left her lovely limbs beneiith as bare as a new- 
born Venus rising from the sea. 

Cler. What an impudent happiness art thou capable 

At. When she was a little recovered from her 

fright, she began to enquire my name, abode, and 

circumstances, that she might know to whom she 

owed her life and preservation. Now, to tell you the 

B Jij 


truth, I durst not trust her with my real name, lest she 
should from thence have discovered that my father 
was now aftually under bonds to marry me to another 
woman ; so, faith, I even told her my name was Free- 
man, a Gloucestershire gentleman, of a good estate, 
just come to town about a chancery suit. Besides, I 
was unwilling any accident should let my father know 
of my being yet in England, lest he should find me 
out, and force me to marry the woman I never saw 
(for which, you know, he commanded me home) be. 
fore I have time to prevent it. 

Cler, Well, but could you not learn the lady's 
name all this while ? 

Jt. No, faith, she was inexorable to all intreaties; 
only told me in general terms, that if vvhat I vowed 
to her was sincere, she would give me a proof in a 
few days what hazards she would run to requite my 
services j so, after having told her where she might 
hear of me, I saw her into a chair, pressed her by 
the cold rosy fingers, kissed them warm, and parted. 

Cler. What, then you are quite off with the lady, I 
suppose, that you made an acquaintance with in the 
Park last week ? 

M. No, no J not so neither : one's my Juno, all 
pride and beauty ; but this my Venus, all life, love, 
and softness. Now, what I beg of thee, dear Cle- 
rirnont, is this : Mrs. Juno, as I told you, having 
done me the honour of a civil visit or two at my own 
lodgings, I must needs borrow thine to entertain Mrs. 
Venus in ; for if the rival goddesses should meet and 


clash, you know there would be the devil to do be- 
tween them. 

Clcr. Well, sir, my lodgings are at your service : — 
but you must be very private and sober, I can tell 
you; for my landlady's a Presbyterian; if she sus- 
pects your design, you're blown up, depend upon't. 

At. Don't fear; I'll be as careful as a guilty con- 
science : but 1 want immediate possession ; for I ex- 
pe(5f to hear from her every moment, and have already 
directed her to send thither. Pr'ythee, come with 

Cler. 'Faith you must excuse me ; I expecl some 
ladies in the Park that I would not miss of ior an 
empire : but yonder's my servant, he shall conduct 

Jt. Very good ! that will do as well then ; I'll send 
my man along with him to expect her commands, and 
call me if she sends : and in the mean time I'll e'en 
go home to my own lodgings; for, to tell ycu the 
truth, I expe<5t a small message there from my god- 
dess imperial. And I am not so much in love with 
my new bird in the bush, as to let t'other fly out of 
my hand for her. 

Cler. And pray, sir, what name does your goddess 
imperial, as you call her, know you by f 

At. O, sir, with her I pass for a man of arms, and 
am called Colonel Standfast; with my new face, John 

Freeman of Flatland-Hall, esq. But time flies: I 

must leave you. 

CUr, Well, dear Atall, I'm yours Good luck to 



you. {Exit At.] What a happy fellow is this, that 

owes his success with the women purely to his incon- 
stancy ^ Here comes another too, almost as happy as 
he, a feliow tliat's wise enough to be but half in love, 
and make his whole life a studied idleness. 

Inter Careless, 
So, Careless! you're constant, I see, to your morn- 
ing's saunter. Well, how stajid matters? — I hear 

strange things of thee ; that after having railed at mar- 
riage all thy life, thou hast resolved to fall into the 
noose at last. v' ,- 

Cart. I don't see any great terror in the noose, as 
you call it, when a man's weary of liberty : the liberty 
of playing the fool, when one's turned of thirty, is not 
of much value. 

CUr. Hey-day! Then you begin to have nofliing in 
your head now, but settlements, children, and the 
main chance ? 

Care. Even so, faith ; but in hopes to come at 'era 
too, I am forced very often to make m.y way though 
pills, elixirs, bolus's, ptisans, and gallipots. 

CUr, What, is your mistress an apothecary's wi- 
dov/ ? 

Care. No, but she is an apothecary's shop, and 
keeps a5 many drugs in her b-ed-chamber ; she has 

her physic for every hour of the day and night- for 

'tis vulgar, she says to be a moment in rude and per- 
itOi health. Her bed lined with poppies ; the black 
boys at the feet, that the healthy employ to bear flow« 


crs in their arms, she loads with diascordium, and 
other sleepy potions : her sweet bags, instead of the 
common and otfensive smells of musk and amber, 
breathe nothing but the more modish and salubrious, 
scents of hartshorn, rue, and assafoetida. 

CUr. Why, at this rate, she's only fit to be the con- 
sort of Hippocrates. But, pray, what other charms 
has this extraordinary lady i 

Care. Siie has one, Tom, that a man may relish 
without being so deep a physician. 

CUr. What's that I 

Care. Why, two thousand pounds a year. 

Cler. No vulgar beauty, 1 confess, sir. But canst 
thou for any consideration ilirow thyself into this hos- 
pital, this box of piiysic, and lie all night like leaf- gold 
upon a pill ? 

Care. O, dear sir, this is not half the evil ; her hu- 
mour is as fantastic as her diet ; notliing that is Eng- 
lish must come near her; all her delight is in foreign 
impertinencies : her rooms are all of Japan or Persia, 
her dress Indian, and her equipage are all monsters : 
the coachman came over with his horses, both from 
Rusisa, Flanders are too common ; the rest of her 
trim are a motley crowd of blacks, tawny, olives, feu- 
iamots, and pale blues: in sh.ort, she's for any thing 
that comes from beyond sea ; her greatest monsters 
are those of her own country ; and she's in love 
with nothing o' this side the line, but the apothe- 

Cler. Apothecaries quotha ! why your fine lady, for 


aught I see, is a perfe»St dose of follv and physic ; in a 

month's titne' she'll grow like an antimonial cup, ar.d 

a kiss will be able to work with vou. 

. Care. But to prevent that, Torn, I design npon the 

wedding-day to break all her gailipo^s, kick the doc^ 

tor down stairs, and force lier, instead of physic, to 

take a hearty meal of a swinging rump of boiled beef 

and cariois, and so 'faith I have told lier. 

• Ckr. That's someihiug familiar : are you so near 

nian and wife ? 

Care. O nearer ; for I sometimes plague her till she 
hates the very sight of me. 

Ckr Ha, ha ! very good ! So being a very trouble - 
som.e lover, you pretend to cure her of her physic by 
a counter poison 

Care. Right ; I intend to see a doflor to prescribe 
to lier an hour of my conversation to be taken every 
night and morning ; and this to be continued till her 
fever of aversion's over. 

Ckr. An admirable recipe ! 

Care. Well, Tom, but how stands thy own affliir? 
Is Clarinda kind yetf 

Ckr. Faith I cannot sav she's absolutely kind, but 
she's pretty near it: for she's grown so ridiculously ill- 
humoured to me of late, that if she keeps the same 
airs a week longer^ I am in hopes to find as much 
ease irom her folly, as my constancy would from her 

good Dature.- But to be plain, i'm afraid I have 

some secret rival in the case ; for women's vanity seU 
ilom givfs them courage enough to use an old lover 

'jiR L TiTE DOUBLE gallant; 15 

heartily ill, till they are first sure of a new one, that 
they intend to use better. 

Care. What says Sir Solomon ? He is your friend, 
I presume ? 

Ckr, Yes; at least I ran make him so when I 
please : there is an odd five hundred pound in her 
fortune, that he has a great mind should stick to 
his fingers, when he pays in the rest on't > v\hichl 
am afraid 1 must comply with, for she cann't easily 

marry without his consent.- And yet she's so 

altered m her behaviour of late, that 1 scarce know 
what to do. Pr'ythee take a turn and advise me. 

Care. With all my heart [^Exeunt- 


Changes to Sir Salomon Sadlife's House. Enter 
5i> Solomon, and Svr vle his 7nan. 

Sir Sol. Supple, dost not thou perceive I put a 
great confidence in thee i 1 trust thee with my bo- 
som secrets 

Sup. Yes, sir. 

Sir So/. Ah, Supple ! I begin to hate my wife . 

but be .secret—- . 

Sup. I'll never tell while I live, sir. 

Sir Sol. Nay, then I'll trust thee further. Between 
thee and T, Supple, I have reason to believe my wife 
hates me too. 

Sup. Ah, dear sir I I doubt that's no secret ; for 

l5 tHE DOUBLE eALLAj;rT. yilB K 

to say the truth, my lady's bitter, young, and game, 

Sir Sol. But can she have the impudence, think'st 
thou, to make a cuckold of a knight, one that was 
dubbed by the royal sword ? 

Sup. Alas, sir, i warrant she has the courage of a 
countess ; if she's once provoked, she cares not what 
she does in her passion ; if you were ten times a 
knight she'd give you dub for dub, sir. 

Sir SoL Ah! Supple when her blood's up, I confess 
she's the devil ; and I question if the whole conclave 
of cardinals could lay her. But suppose she should 
resolve to give me a sample of her sex, and make me 
a cuckold in cool blood ? 

Sup. Why, if she should, sir, don't take it so to 
lieart ; cuckolds are no such monsters novv-a-days : 
in the city, you know, sir, it's so many honest men^s 
fortune, that no body minds it there ; and at this end 
of the town, a' cuckold has as much respe6t as his 
wife, for aught I see ; for gentlemen don't know but- 
it may be their own case another day, and so people 
are willing to do as they would be done by. 

Sir SoL And yet I do not think but my spouse is 
honest — and think she is not would I were sa- 

Sup. Troth, sir, I don't know what to think, but 
in my, conscience I believe good looking after- her can 
do her no harm. 

Sir Sol. Right, Supple ; and in order to it, Pll first 
demolish her visiting days. For how do I know but 


they may be so many private ciubs for cuckol* 
dom ? 

Sup. Ah, sir ! your worship knows I was always 
against your coming to this end of the town. 

Sir Sol. Thou wert indeed, my honest Supple: but 
woman ! fair and faithless woman, wormed and 
worked me to her wishes; — hke fond Mark x^ntony, 
I let my empire moulder from my hands, and gave up 
all for love. — I must have a young wife, with a mur- 
rian to me — 1 hate her too — and yet the devil on't is, 
I'm still jealous of her. — Stay ! let me reckon up all 
the fashionable virtues she has that can make a man 
happy. In the first place — I think her very ugly. 

Sup. Ah, that's because you are married to her, sir. 

Sir Sol. As for her expences, no arithmetic can 
reach them ; she's always longing for something dear 
and useless ; she will certainly ruin me in china, silks, 
ribbands, fans, laces, perfumes, washes, powder, 
patches, jessamine gloves, and ratifia. 

Slip. Ah, sir, that's a cruel liquor with them. 

Sir Sol. To sum up all would run me mad.- The 

only way to put a stop to her career, must be to put 
off my coach, turn away her chairmen, lock out her 
Swiss porter, bar up the doors, keep out all visiters, 
and then she'll be less expensive. 

Sup. Ay, sir, for fev/ women think it worth their 
while to dress for their husbands. 

Sir Sol. Then we sha'n't be plagued with 'my old 
Lady Tittle-tattle's howd'ye's in a morning, nor my 
Lady Dainty's spleen, or the sudden indisposition of 
that grim beast her horrible dutch mastiif. 


. Sup. No, sir, nor the impertinence of that great fat 
creature, my Lady Swill-Tea. 

Sir SoL And her squinting daughter.— No, Supple, 
after, this night, nothing in petticoats siiall come with- 
in ten yards of my doors. 

Sup. Nor in breeches neither. 

Sir SoL Only Mr. Clerimont; for I cxpeft him to 
sign articles with me for the five hundred pounds he 
is to give me, for that ungovernable jade my niece 

Clarinda. -But now to my own affairs. I'll step 

into the park, and see if i can meet wirh my hopeful 
spouse there. I warrant, engaged in some innocent 
freedom, as she calls it, as walking in a mask, to laugh 
at the impertinencies of fops that don't know her ; 
but 'tis m.ore likely, I'm afraid, a plot to intrigue with 
those that do. On, how many torments he in the 
small circle of a wedding-ring. [Exeunt. 


Clarinda'^ Jpartment. Enter Clarinda and 

Clarinda » 
Ha. ha' poor Sylvia I 

SyL Nay, pr'ythee, don't laugh at me. There's no 
accounting tor mcUnation : for if there were, you 
know, wt.y j^hoiild it be a greater folly in me, to fall 
in love V i.h a man I never saw but once in my life, 
tlian it h in you to resist an honest gemleman, whose 


fidelity has deserved your heart an hundred times 


a'ar. Ah, but an utter stranger, cousin, and one 
that, for aneht you know, mav be no gentleman. 

SyL That's impossible: his conversation could not 
be coun'erfeit. An elevated wit, and good breeding* 
have a natural histre that's inimitable. Be.ide, he 
saved my life at the hazard of his own j so diat part 
cf what I give him, is but gratitude. 

" Clar. Well i— you are the first woman that ever 
«' took fire in the middle of the Thames, sure.'' But 
suppose new he is married, and has tluee or four 

S\L Psha \ pr'ythee don't tease me with so many 
ni.naiuved objeaioris. I tell you he is not married f 
1 am sure he is not : for I never saw a face look more 
in humour in my life. Beside, he told me himselt, 
he was a country gentleman, just come to town upon 
business: and I am resolved to believe him. 

Oar. Well, well ; I'll suppose you both as fit for 
one another as a couple of tallies. But, still, my dear, 
you know there's a surly old father's command against 
you ; he is in articles to marry you to another : and 
though L know love is a notable contriver, I canu't see 
how you'll get over that difficulty. 

SyL ' Tis a terrible one, 1 own ; but with a little of 
your assistance, dear Ciarinda, 1 am stiil in hopes to 
bring it to an even wager, 1 prove as wise as my 

Oar. Nav, you jiiay be sure of me ; you iroy see 


by the management of my own amours, I have so 
natural a compassion fpr disobedience, I sha'n't be 
able to refuse you any thing in distress.—There's my 
hand ; tell me how I can serve you ? 

Syl. Why rhus : because I would not wholly 

discover myself to him at once, I have sent him a 
note to visit me here, as if these lodgings were my 

Clar, Hither ! to my lodging 1 'Twas well I sent 
Colonel Standfast word I should not be at home. 

Syl, I hope you'll pardon my freedom, since one 
end of my taking it too, was to have your opinion of 
him before I engage any farther. 

Clar. Oh, it needs no apology ; any thing of mine 
is at your service.- 1 am only afraid my trouble- 
some lover, Mr. Clerimont, should happen to see 
him, who is of late so impertinently jealous of a rival, 

though from wiiat cause I know not not but I 

lie too. [Aside.-] I say, should he see Jiim, your 
country gentleman would be in danger, I can tell 

Syl. Oh, there's no fear of that; for I have ordered 
him to be brought in the back way : when I have 
talked with him a httle alone, I'll find an occasion to 
leave him with you j and then we'll compare our 
opinions of him. 

Enter a Servant to Clarinda. 
Serv. Madam, my Lady Sadlife. {ExiU 


Syl. Pshal she here! 

Qar. Don't be uneasy; she sha^n't disturb you : I'll 
take care of her. 

Enter Lady Sm^lite, 

L. Sad. Oh, my dears, you have lost the sweetest 
inornin;T, sure, that ever peeped out of the firmament. 
The park, never was in such perfedion. 

Clar. 'Tis always so when your ladysliip's there. 

L. Sad, 'Xis never so without my dear Clarinda. 

Syl. Hov/ civilly we women hate one another ! 
\^Aside.^ Was there a good deal of company, madam? 

L. Sad. Abundance! and tlie best I have seen this 
season : for 'twas between twelve and one, the very 
hour you know when the mob are violently hungry. 
Oh, the air was so inspiring I so amorous! And to 
cor.iplere the pleasure, I was attacked in conversation 
by tiie most charming, modest, agreeably insinuating 
young fellow, sure, that ever woman played the fool 

Clar. Who was it ? 

L. Sad. Nay, Heaven knows ; his face is as entirely 
nev/ as his conversation. What wretches our young 
feiiovvs are to him! 

Syl. What sort of a person ? 

L. Sad. Tall, straight, well-limbed, walked firm, 
and a look as cheerful as a May-day morning. 

Syl. The picture's very like : pray Heaven it is not 
my gentleman's ! [yJsid<:. 

Clar. I N%ish this don't prove my colonel. Idiide, 
C iij 


Syl. How came you to part with him so soon ? 

L. Sad. Oh, name it not ! tliat eternal damper of 
all pleasure, my husband, Sir Solomon, came into the 
Mall in the very crisis of our conversation. — I saw 
him at a distance, and complained that the air grew 
tainted, that I was sick o'th' sudden, and left him in 
such abruptness and confusion, as if he had been him- 
self my husband. 

Clar. A melancholy disappointment, indeed ? 

L. Sad. Oh, 'tis a husband's nature to give them. 

A Servant enters and whispers Sylvia. 
Syl. Desire him to walk in. — Cousin, you'll be at 

Clar. In the next roonj. Come, madam, Sylvia 

has a little business : I'll shew you some of the sweet- 
est, pretiest figured china. 

L. Sad, My dear, I wait on you. 

[Exeunt L. Sad. and Clar. 

Entej- Atall, as Mr. Freeman. 

Syl. You find, sir, I have kept iny word in seeing 
you; 'tis all you yet have asked of me ; and when I 
know 'tis in my power to be more obliging, there's 
nothing you can command in honour I shall refuse 

At. This generous offer, madam, is so high an ob- 
ligation, that it were almost mean in me to ask a 
f irther favour. But 'tis a lover's merit to be a miser 
in his fvishea and grasp at all occasions to enrjcb 


them. I own I feel your charms too sensibly prevail, 
bur dare not give a loose to my ambitious thous^hts, 
'till i have passed one dreadful doubt that shakes 

Syl. If 'tis in my power to clear it, ask me freely. 

At. I tremble at the trial; and yet, methinks, my 
fears are vain: but yet to kill or cure them once for 
ever, be just and tell me are you married? 

Syl. If that can make you easy, no. 

At, 'Tis ease indeed — nor are you promised, nor 
your heart engaged ? 

Syl. That's hard to tell you : but to be just, I own 
my father has engaged my person to one i never saw; 
and my heart I fear is inclining to one he never saw. 

At. Oh, yet be merciful, and ease my doubt ; tell 
me the happy man that has deserved so exquisite a 

SyL That, sir, requires some pause : first tell me 
why you're so inquisitive, without letting me know 
the condition of your own heart. 

At. In every circumstance my heart's the same with 
yours J 'tis promised to one I never saw, by a com- 
manding father, who, by my firm iiopes of happiness, 
I am resolved to disobey, unless your cruelty pre- 
vents it. 

Syl. But ray disobedience would beggar me.T 

At. Banish that fear. I'm heir to a fortime will 
support you like yourself,— May I not know your 

SyL Yet you must not. 


At. Why that nicety \ Is not it in my power to in« 
quire whose house this is when I am gone ? 

Syl. And be never the wiser. These lodgings arc 
a friend's, and are only borrowed on this occasion : but 
to save you the trouble of any further needless ques- 
tions, I will make you one proposal. I have a young 
lady here within, who is tlie only confident of my en- 
gatjements to you: on her opinion I rely; nor can 
you take it ill, if I take no farther steps without it: 
'twould be niiseiable indeed should we both meet 
beggars. I own your actions and appearance merit 
all you can desire; let her be as well satisfied of your 
pretensions and condition, and you shall find it sha'n't 
be a little fortune shall make me ungrateful. 

ylt. So generous an offer exceeds my hopes, 

Sj/L Who's there? 

Enter a Servant. 
Desire my cousin Clarinda to walk in. 

At. Ha! Clarinda! If it should be my Clarinda 

now, I'm in a sweet condition by all that^s terrible 

the very she !— tills was finely contrived of fortune, 


'jE^/2/er Clarinda; 

Clar. Defend me I Colonel Standfast!— She has 
certainly drscovered my affairs with him, and has a 
mind to insult me by an affeffed resignauon of her 
pretensions to him«— I'll disappoint her^-I won't 
know him. \^Aside. 


Syl. Cousin, pray, come forward; this is the gentle- I iim so much obliged to— sir, this lady is a rela- 
tion of mine, and the person we v/ere speakin"' of. 

At. I shall be proud to be better known among any 
€f your friends. SJiaiuies her. 

Clar. Soh! he takes the hint, I see, and seems not 
to know me neither : i know nor v\har to think— I 
am confounded !—! hate both him and her.— How 
unconcerned he looks! Confusion! he addresses her 
before my face. 

Lady S ad j^ife peeping in, 

L. Sad. What do I see? The pleasant young fel- 
low that talked with me in the park just now I This 
is the luckiest accident! I must know a little more of 
^i^"- [Retires, 

Syl. Cousin, and Mr. Freeman, I think I need not 
make any apology— you both know the occasion of 
my leaving you together— in a quarter of an hour PU 
wait on you again. [Exit Syl. 

At. So! r in a hopeful way now, faith j— but 
buff's the word: I'll stand it. 

Clar. Mr. Freeman! So, my gentleman has changed 
his name too! How harmless he looks!— I have my 
senses sure, and yet the demureness of that face looks 
as if he had a mind to persuade me out of them. I 
could find in my heart to humour his assurance, and 

see how far he'll carry it ~\Y\\\ not you please to 

^''^'''^ [They sit. 

At. What the devil can this mean t— Sure she has 


a mind to counterface me, and not know me too 

With all my heart : if her ladyship won't know me, 
I'm sure 'tis not my business at this time to know her. 

\_ Aside, 
Clar. Certainly that face is cannon pi-oof. ^Asid^, 

At. Now for a formal speech, as if I had never seen 
her in my Ufe before. lAsidc.'] Madam— a- hem I 
Madam — I — a- hem I 

Clar. Curse of that steady face. lAside, 

At. I say, madam, since I am an utter stranger to 
you, I am afraid it will be very difficult for me to 
offer you more arguments than one to do me a friend- 
ship with your cousin ; but if you are, as she seems 
to own you, her real friend, I presume you cann't give 
her a better proof of your being so, than pleading the 
cause of a sincere and humble lover, whose tender 
wishes never can propose to taste of peace in life 
without her. 

Clar. Umph! I'm choked. [Aside, 

At. She gave me hopes, that when T had satisfied 
you of my birth and fortune, you would do me the 
honour to let me know her name and family. 

Clar. Sir, I must own you are the most perfea 
master of your art, that ever entered the lists of as- 

At. Madam! 

Clar. And I don't doubt but you'll find it a much 
easier task to impose upon my cousin, than me. 

At. Impose, madam ! I should be sorry any thing 
I have said could disoblige you into such har<d 


thonglUs of me. Sure, madam, you are under some 

Clar. I was indeed, but now my eyes are or;en ; 
for» 't:Jl this minute, I never knew that the gay Colo-- 
nel S andfast, was the demure Mr. Freeman. 

At. Colonel Standfast! This is extremely dark, 

Clar. This jest is tedious, sir — impudence grows 
dull, when 'tis so very extravagant. 

At. Madam, I am a gentleman— but not yet wise 
enough, I find, to account for the humours of a fine 

C'<2r. Troth, sir, on second thoughts I begin to be 
a little better reconciled to your assurance ; 'tis in 
some sort modesty to deny yourself; for to own your 
p-erjuries to my face, had been an insolence transcen. 
dently provoking. 

At. Really, madam, my not being able to appre, 
hend one word of all this, is a great inconvenience to 
my affair with your cousin : but if you will first do 
Kie the honour to make me acquainted with her name 
and family, I don't much care if I do take a little 
pains afterwards to come to a right understanding 
with you. 

Ciar. Come, come, since you see this assurance 
will do you no good, you had better put on a simple' 
look, and generously confess your frailties : the same 
sl>ness that deceived me first, will still §nd me WQ* 
man enough to pardon ycu. 


At. That bite won't do \_Aside.'\ Sure, madam, you 
mistake me for some other person. 

Clar. Insolent ! audacious villain ! I am not to have 
my senses then I 

At. No. [yhide. 

Clar, And you are resolved to stand it to the last! 

>^^ The last extremity. [Aside, 

Clar. Well, sir, since you are so much a stranger 
to Colonel Standfast, I'll tell you where to find him, 
and tell him this from me ; I hate him, scorn, detest, 
and loath him: I never meant him but at best for my 
diversion, and should he ever renew his dull addresses 
to me, I'll have him used as his vain insolence de- 
serves. Now, sir, I have "no more to say, and I de- 
sire you would leave the house immediately. 

At. I would not willingly disoblige you, madam, 
but 'tis impossible to stir 'till I have seen your cousin, 
and cleared myself of these strange aspersions. 

Clar. Don't flatter yourself, sir, with so vain a 
hope, for I must tell you, once for all, you've seen 
the last of her; and if you won't be gone, you'll 
oblige me to have you forced away. 

At. I'll be even with you. {Aside.} Well, madam, 
since I find nothing can prevail upon your cruelty, 
I'll take my leave: but as you hope for justice on the 
man that wrongs you, at least be faithful to your 
lovely friend; And when you have named to her 
my utmost guilt, yet paint my passion as it is, sincere. 
Tell her what tortures I endured in this severe ejf. 


elusion from her sight, that till my innocence is clear 

to her, and she again receives me into mercy, 

A madman^ 5 frenzy's heav'n to what I feel j 

The wounds you give 'tis she alone can heal. [Exit. 

Clar. Most abandoned impudence I And yet I 

know not which vexes me most, his out-facing my 

senses, or his insolent owning his passion for my 

cousin to my face : 'tis impossible she could put him 

upon this, it must be all his own ; but be it as it will, 

by all that's woman I'll have revenge. {Exit, 

Re-enter Atall and Lady Sadlife at the other side. 

At. Hey-day 1 is there no way down stairs here ? 
Death ! I cann't find my way out 1 This is the oddest 

L. Sad. Here he is — I'll venture to pass by him. 

At. Pray, madam, which is the nearest way out f 

L, Sad. Sir, cut—-— a- 

At. Oh, my stars I is't you, madam, this is for- 
tunate indeed— I beg you'll tell me, do you live here, 
madam ? 

Z. Sad. Not very far off, sir : but this is no place 
to talk with you alone — indeed I must beg your par- 

At. By all those kindling charms that fire my soul, 
no consequence on earth sliall make me quit my hold, 
till you've given me some kind assurance that I shall 
see you again, and speedily ; 'egad I'll have one out 
of the family at least, 



L. Sad. Oh, good, here's company ! 

At. Oh, do not rack me with delays, but quick, be- 
fore this dear short-lived opportunity's lost, inform 
me where you live, or kill me : to part with this 
soft w hue hand is ten thousand daggers to my heart. 

[Kissing it eagerly, 

L. Sad. Oh, lud ! I am going home this minute; 
and if you should offer to dog my chair, 1 protest I 

was ever such usage^— lord sure 1 Oh— 

follow me down then. \_Exeunt. 

Re-enter ClARINDA, and SYLVIA. 

Syl. Ha, ha, ha I 

Ciar. Nay, you may laugh, madam, but what I tell 
you is true. 

SyL Ha, ha, ha ! 

Clar. Yon don't believe then ? 

SyL I do believe, that when some women are in- 
clined to like a man, nothing more palpably dis- 
covers it, than their railing at him i ha, ha !— Your 
pardon, cousin ; you know you laughed at me just 
now upon the same occasion. 

Clar. The occasion's quite different, madam ; I 
hate him. And, once more 1 tell you, he's a villain, 
you're imposed on. He's a colonel of foot, his regi- 
ment's now in Spain, and his name's Standfast, 

SyL But pray, good cousin, whence liad you this 
intelligence of iiim ? 

Clar. From the same place that you had your false 
account madam, hi* own mouth. 


SyL. What was his business with you ? 

Clar. Much about the same, as liis business with 
you love. 

SyL Love \ to you ! 

Clar. jMe, madaml Lord, what am I? Old, or i 
monster! Is it so prodigious that a man should hke 
me > 

Syi. No I but rm amazed to think, if he had liked 
you, he should leave yon so soon, for me ! 

Clar. For you ! leave me for you 1 No, madam, I 
did not tell you that neither ! ha, ha !' 

SyL No ! What made you so violently angry with 
him then ? Indeed, cousin, you had better take some 
other fairer way ; this artifice is much too weak to make 
me break with liim. But, however, to let you see I 
can be still a friend; prove him to be what you say- 
he is, and my engagements with him shall scon be 

Clar. Look you, madam, not but I slight the ten- 
derest of iiis addresses; but to convince you that my 
vanity was not mistaken in hnn, I'll write to hun by 
the name of Colonel Standfast, and do you the sume 
by that of Freeman ; and let's each appoint hini to 
meet us at my Lady Sadhfe's at the same time : if these 
appear two difterent men, 1 think our dispute's easily 
at an end ; if but one, and he does not own all 1 have 
said of him to your face, I'll make you a very humble 
curtesy, and beg your pardon. 

SyL And if he does own if, I'll make your ladyship 
the same reverence, and beg yours. 


Enter Clerimon r, 
- Clar. Psha ! he here I 

Cler. I am glad to find you in such good company, 

Clar, One's seldom long in good company, sir. 

Cler, I am sorry mine has been so troublesome of 
late J but I value your ease at too high a rate, to dis- 
turb it. IGoing, 

SyL Nay, Mr. Clerimont, upon my word you sha'n't 
stir. Hark )'Oi.\~-[JVhispers.'\ Your pardon, cousin. 

Clar. I must not lose him neither — Mr. Clerimont's 
way is, to be severe in his construflion of people's 

Syl. I'll write my letter, and be with you, cousin. 

[ Exit. 

Ckr. It was always my principle, madam, to have 
an humble opinion of my merit ; when a woman of 
sense frowns upon me, I ought to think I deserve it. 

Clar. Bur to expert to be always received with a 
smile, I think, is having a very extraordinary opinion 
of one's merit. 

Cler. We differ a little as to fact, madam : for these 
ten day's past, i have had no distindion, but a severe 
reservedness. You did not use to be so sparing of 
your good-humour ; and while I see you gay to all 
the world but me, 1 cann't but be a little concerned 
at the chanire. 

Clar. if he lias discovered the colonel now, I'm un- 
done ! he could not meet him, sure. 1 must hu- 


mour him a little. \^Aside.'] Men of your sincere tem- 
per, Mr. Cleiimont, I own, don't always meet with 
the usage tliev deserve : but women are giddy things, 
and had we no errors to answer for, the use oi good* 
nature in a lover would be lost. Vanity is our in- 
herent weakness : you must not chide, if we are some- 
times fonder of your passions than your prudence. 

Cltr. This friendly condescension makes me more 
your slave than ever. Oh, yet be kind, and tell me, 
have I been tortured with a groundless jealousy ? 

Clar. Let sour own heart be judge but don't 

take it ill if 1 leave you now — 1 have some earnest bu- 
siness with my cousin Sylvia : but to-night at my 
Lady Dainty's I'll make you amends; you'll be there. 

Cler. I need not promise you. 

Ciar. Your servant. — Ah, how easily is poor since- 
rity imposed on ! Now for the colonel. \_ A side. Exit, 

Cler. This unexpe6led change of humour more 

stirs my jealousy than all her late severity. I'll 

watch her close ; 

For she that from a just reproach is kind^ 

Gives more suspicion of her guilty iniiidj 

And throws her smiles, like dust, to strike the lover blind, 





Lady Dainty 'i Apartment : a Table, with Phials^ Gal'- 
lipotSy Glasses, &c. Lady Dainty, and Situp /ler 

Lady Dainty » 
Situp! Situp! 

Sit, Madam I 

L: Dain. Thou art strangely slow ; I told thee the 
hartshorn; I have the vapours lo that degree ! 

Sit. If you ladyship would take my advice you 
should e'en fling your physic out of the window; if 
you were not in perfect health in three days, I'd be 
bound to be sick for you. 

L. Dain. Peace, goody impertinence ! I tell tliee, 
no woman of quality is, or should be in perfeft health 

•-— Huh, huh ! [Coughs faintly.'] To be always in 

health is as vulgar as to be aKvays in humour, and 
would equally betray one's want of wit and breeding : 
-^- — wiiere are the fellows'? 

Sit. Here, Madam — ■. 

Enter two Footmen. 

L. Dain, Cssar ! — run to my Lady Roundsides; de- 
sire to know how she rested : and tell her the violence 
of my cold is abated : huh, huh ! Pompey, step you 
to my Lady Killchairman's; give my service ; say, I 
have been so embarrassed with the spleen all this 


morning, that 1 am under the greatest uncertainty in 
the world, whether I shall be able to stir out or no— 
And, d'ye hear; desire to know how my lord does, 
and the new monkey [^Exeunt Footmen, 

Sit. f n mv conscience, these great ladies make them- 
selves sick to make themselves business j and are well 
or ill, only in ceremony to one another. \^Aside» 

L. Davu Where's t'other fellow ? 

Sit. He is not returned yet, madam. 

L. Dain. 'Tis indesd a strange lump, not fit to 
carry a disease to any body ; I sent him t'other day 
to the Dutchess of Diet- Drink with the cholic, and 
the brute put it into his own tramontane language, 
and called it the belly-ach. 

Sit. I wish your ladyship had not occasion to send 
for any ; for my part 

L. Dain. Thy part ! pr'ythee, thou wert made 

of the rough masculine kind ; 'tis betraying our sex 
not to be sickly and tender. All the families I visit 
have something derived to them from the elegant nice 
state of indisposition; you see, even in the men, a 
genteel, as it were, stagger, or twine of the bodies; 
as if they were not yet confirmed enough for the rough 
laborious exercise of walking, *' a lazy saunter 
" in their motion, something so quality ! and their 
<* voices so soft and low, you'd think they were fall- 
** ing asleep, they are so very delicate. 

" Sit. But, methinks, madam, it would be better if 
** the men )vere not altogether so tender. 

36 THE DOUBLE GALLANT. yid lit, 

** Z Duin. Indeed, I have sometimes wished tlie 
** creatures were nor, but that the niceness of their 
** fr:^nie so much distinguishes them from the herd of 
** common people." nay, even most of their diseases, 
you see, are not prophaned by the crowd : the apo- 
piexy, the gout, and vapours, are all peculiar to the 

nobility. Huh, huh ! and I could almost wish, 

that colds were only ours; there's son\ething in 

them so genteel, so agreeably disordering huh, 

hull ! 

Sit. That, I hope, I shall never be fit for them— 
Your ladyship forgot the spleen. 

/.. Dain. Oh! -my dear spleen 1 grudge that 

even to some of us. 

Sit. I knew an ironmonger's wife, in the city, that 
was init^htily troubled with it. -. 
L. Dain. Fch ! What a creature hast thou named! 
An ironmonger's wife have the spleen! Thou might- 
€st as well have said her husband was a fine gentle- 
man -Give me something. 

Sit. Will your ladyship please to take any of the 
steel drops ? or the bolus? or the elecluary ? or— — 
L. Dain. This wench will smother me with ques- 
tions-- — huh, huh! bring any of them — these 

healthy sluts are so boisterous, they split one's brains: 
I fancy myself in an inn while she talks to me; I must 
have some decayed person of quality about me ; for 
the commons of England are the strangest creatures 
———huh, huh.l 


Enter Servant. 

Serv. Mrs. Sylvia, madam, is come to wait on your 

L. Dain. Desire her to walk in; let the physic 
alone : I'll take a little of her company j she's mighty 
good fur the spleen. 

Enter Sylvia. 

SyL Dear Lady Dainty ! 

L. Daiu: My good creature, I'm overjoyed to see 
you — huh, l-;uh \ 

SyL I am sorry to see yourladyship WTapt up thus; 
I was in hopes to have had your company to the In- 
dian hou-:e. 

L. Dcin. If any thing could teippL me abroad, 
'twould be that place, and such agreealaie coiirpany ; 
but how came you. dear Sylvia, to be reconciled to 
any tliing in an Indian house ? you used to have a 
mos!: barbarous inclination for our own odious manu- 

Syl: Nay, madam, T am only going to recruit my 
tea-table: as to the rest of their trumpery, I am as 
much out of humour with it as ever. 

L. Dain, Well, thou art a pleasant creature, thy 
distaste is so diverting. 

Syl. And your ladyship is so expensive, that really 
I am not able to come into it. 

L, Dain. Now it is to me prodigious I how some 


vvorren can nuiddle away their money upon hoiise- 
wiferv, children, bqcks, and charities, wfien there are 
so many well-bred ways, and foreign curiosities, that 
moje elegantly require it — I have every morning the 
rarities ot all countries brou^ihr to me, and am in love 
with every new thmg I see. — Are the people come 
yet, Situp ? 

Sit. They have been below, madam, this half hour. 

Z. Dain. Dispose them in the parlour, and we'll be 
there presently. S^Exit. Situp. 

Syl. How can your ladysliip take si'ch pleasure in 
being clieaied witii the baubies of other countries? 

L. Dain. Thou art a very infidel to all finery. 

Syl. And you are a very bigot — 

h. Dain A person of all reason, and no complai- 

5)/. And your ladyship all complaisance, and no 

L Dain. Follow me, and be converted. \Lxeutd, 

Rc-cntcr Si I UF, a IVoman rviik China Ware ; an Indian 
Man wnh Screens^ Tcuy &c. a Biidinaa with a Paro* 
qur.t, Monkry^ &c. 

Sit. Come, come into this room. 

Chi. 1 hupe your ladyship's lady won't be long in 

■ Sit. ! don't care if she never comes to you. It 

seems you traie with the ladies for old clothes, and 
give iheui china for their gowns and petticoats ; I'm 


like to have a fine time on't with such creatures as 
you indeed I 

Chi. Alas, madam, I'm but a poor woman, and am 
forced to do any thing to live : will your ladyship be 
pleased to accept of a piece of china ? 

5zV. Puh! no;— I don't care. —Though I must 
needs say you look like an honest woman. 

\_Looking en it, 
- Chi. Thank you, good madam. 

Sit. Our places are like to come to a fine pass in- 
deed, if our ladies must buy their china with our \,tv- 
quisites : at this rate, my lady sha'n't have an old Ian, 
or a giove ! but 

Chi. Prav, madam, take it. 

Sit. No, not \ ', I won't have it, especially without 
a saucer to't. Here, take it again. 
• Chi. Indeed yor. shall accept of it. 

Sit. Not I, truly— come, give it me, give it mej— . 
here's my lady. 

Enter Lady V>M'HTYy end SYhY I \. 

I. Dain. Well, my dear, is not this a pretty sight 
now ? 

Syl. It's better than so many dolors and apothe- 
caries, indeed. 

L Dain, All trades must live, you know ; and those 
no moie than these could subsist, it the world were all 
wise, or hedlihy. 

Syl, 1 am afraid our real diseases are but few to our 


imaginary, and doftors get more by the sound than the 

L. Dain. My dear, you're allowed to say any thinj^ 

— but now I must talk with the people.- -Have you 

got any thing new there \ 

Chi, Ind. and Bird, Yes, an^t please your lady- 

L. Dain. One at once. 

Bird. I have brought your ladyship the finest men- 

Syl. What a filthy thing it is ! ^ 

L. Dain. Now I think he looks, very humourous 
and agreeable — I vow in a white p^rriwig he might 
do mischief. Could he but talk and take snufr, there's 
ne'er a fop in town would go beyond him. 

Syl. Most fops would go farther if they did not speak; 
but talking, indeed, makes them very often worse 
company than monkies. 

L. Dain. Thou pretty little picture of man ! — 

How very Indian he looks! 1 could kiss the dear 

creature ! 

Syl. Ah, don't touch him! he'll bite ! 

Bird. No, madam, he is the tamest you ever sayv, 
and the least mischievous. 

L. Dain. Then take him away, I wcn*t have him ; 
for mischief is the wit of a monkey; and I would not 
give a farthing for one that would not break me three 
or four pounds worth of china in a morning. Oh, I 
am in love with these Indian figures! — Do but ob- 


serve what an innocent natural simplicity there is in 
all the actions of them. 

Chi. These are Pagods, madam, that the Indians 

L. Dain. So far I am an Indian. 

SyL Now to me they are all monsters. 

L. Dain. Profane creature ! 

Chi. Is your ladyship for a piece of right Flanders 
lace ? 

L. Dain. Um — no ; I don't care for it, now it is not 

Ind. Will your ladyship be pleased to have a pound 
of fine tea ? 

L. Dain. What, filthy, odious bohea, I suppose ? 

Ind. No, madam; right Kappakawawa. 

L, Dain. Well, there's something in the very sound 

of that name, that makes it irresistible. What is 

it a pound ? 

Ind. But six guineas, madam. 

L. Dain. How infinitely cheap 1 I'll buy it all— — — 
Sit up, take the man in and pay him, and let the rest 
call again to-morrow. 

Onims. Bless your ladyship. 

\_Exeiint Sit. Chi. Ind. andVArdi.. 

L. Dain. Lord, how feverish I ami — the least mo- 
lion does so disorder me — do but feel me. 

SyL No, really, I think you are in very good temper. 

L. Dain, Burning, indeed, child. 


Enter Servant, DoBorj and yJpotkecary, 

Serv. Madam, here's Dodor Bolus, and the apo- 
thecary. l^Exit.^ 

L. Dain. Oh, do61or, I'm glad you're come; one 
is not sure of a moment's life without you. 

Dr. Kow did your ladysliip rest, madam ? 

\_Feels her piilse. 

L, Dain. Never worse, indeed, ^o6lor : I once fell 
into a little slumber, indeed, but then was disturbed 
by the most odious, frightful dream, that if the fright 
had not wakened me, I had certainly perished in my 
sleep, with the apprehension. 

Dr. A certain sign of a disordered brain, madam; 
but I'll order something that shall compose your 

L. Dain. Mr. Rhubarb, I must quarrel with you 
— — you don't disguise your medicines enough; they 
taste all physic. 

Rkub. To alter it more might offend the operation, 

/,. Dain. I don't care what is offended, so my taste 
is not. 

Dr. Hark you, Mr Rhubarb, withdraw the medi- 
cine-, rather than to make it pleasant : I'll find a rea- 
son for the want of its operation. 

Rhub. But, sir, if we don't look about us, she'll 
j;rovv well upon our hands. 
^^i)r. Never fear thatj she's' too much a woman of 


quality to dare to be well without her noclor's 

R/iulf. Sir, we have drained the whole catalogue of 
diseases already ; there's not another left to put iu 
her head. 

Dr. Then I'll make her go them over again. 

Enter Careless. 

Care, So, here's the old levee, doftor and apothe» 
Cary in close consultation I Now will I demolish the 

quack and i\is medicines before, her face.« Mr. 

Rhubarb, your servant. Pray what have yow got in 
your hand there ? 

Rkui>. Only a julep and composing draught for my 
lady, sir. 

Care. Have you so, sir ? Pray, let me see — I'll pre» 
scribe to-day. Do^or, you may go — the lady shall 
take no physic at present but me. 

j)r. Sir . 

Care. Nay, if you won't believe me 

[^Breaks the phials, 

L, Dain. Ah I—— \_Frigktsdj and leaning upon SyU 

Dr. Come away, Mr. Rhubarb — he'll certainly 
put her out of order, and then she'll send for us 
again. \_Exit Dr. and ^poth. 

Care, You see, madam, what pains I take to come 
into your favour, 

L. Dain. You take a very preposterous way, I can 
tell you, sir. 

Care. I cann't tell how I succeed, but I aip sure I 


endeavour right ; for I study every morning new im- 
pertinence to entertain you : for since I find nothing 
but dogs, doftors, and monkies are your favourites, 
it is very hard if your ladyship won't admit me as one 
of the number, 

L. Dain» When I find you of an equal merit with 
my monkey, you shall be in the same state of favour. 
I confess, as a proof of your wit, you have done me 
as much mischief here. But you have not half pug's 
judgment; nor his spirit; for the creature will do a 
world of pleasant things, without caring whether one 
likes them or not. 

Care, Why, truly, madam, the little gentleman, my 
rival, 1 believe, is much in the right on^t : and, if 
you observe, 1 have taken as much pains of late to 
d;sobl ge, as to please you. 

L. Lain. You succeed better in one than t'other, I 
can tell you, sir. 

Care, i am glad on't; for if you had not me now 
and then to plague you, wiiat would you do for a pre- 
tence to be chagrined, to faint, have the spleen, the 
vapours, and <il] those modish disorders that so nicely 
distmguish a woman of quality? 

L. Dain. I am perfectly confounded! — Certainly 
there are some people too impudent for our resent- 

Care, Modesty's a starving virtue, madam, an 
old threadbare fashion of the last age, and would sit 
as oddly on a lover now, as a picked beard and mus- 


L. Dain. Mast astonishing ! ' ^ 

Care. I have tried sighing and looking silly a great 
while, but 'twould not do — nay, had you had as little 
wit as good-nature, should have proceeded to dance 
and sing. Tell fiie but how, what face or form can 
worship you, and behold your votary. 

L, Dain. Not, sir, as the Persians do the sun, with 
your face towards me. The best proof you can o-ive 
me of your horrid devotion, is never to see me more. 
Come, my dear. ^Exit with Sylvia. 

Syl. I'm amazed so much assurance should not 
succeed. \_Exit» 

Care. All this sha'n't make me out of love with my 
virtue. Impudence has ever been a successful quality, 
and 'twould be hard, indeed, if I should be the first 
that did not thrive by it. " \^ExiU 


Clerimont'5 Lodgings. Enter Atall, and Finder, 
his Man. 

At, You are sure you know the house again ? 

Fin. Ah, as well as I do the upper gallery, sir.- — 
'Tis Sir Solomon Sadlife's, at the two glass lanthorns, 
within three doors of my Lord Duke's. 

At. Very well, sir—then take this letter, enquire 
for my Lady Sadlife's woman, and stay for an answer. 

Fin. Yes, sir. [Exit. 

At. W^l, I find 'tis as ridiculous to propose plea- 
E iii 


sure in love without variety of mistresses, as to pre- 
tend fij be a kten sportsman without a good stable 
ot tiorses li>w this lady may prove I cann't tell; 
b -.1 if she IS not a deedy tit at the bottom, I'm no 

Re-enter Finder. 

tin. ^-', here are two letters for you. 

At, Who b- ought them i' 

Fin A couple of footmen, and they both desire 
an anr^wer. 

AL Bid them stay, and do you make haste where I 
ordered you. 

Fin. Yes, sir. [^-^■^*^- 

it. To Col. Standfast— that's Clarinda'-s hand— To 
Mr. Freeman— that must be rav incognita^ Ah, I have 
most mmd to open tills first ;— if t'other malicious 
crearure should have perverted her growing inclina- 
tion to me, 'twould put my whole frame in a tremb- 

lijig. .Hold, I'li j;uess my fate by degrees— this 

ma V give n\t a glimpse of it. ^Reads Clarinda'5 letter.'] 
Um_u.-.— urn— Ha! To meet her at my Lady Sad- 
life's at seven o'clock to-night, and take no manner 
of notice of my late disowning myself to her— Some- 
thmg's at the bottom of all this.— Now to solve 
the r.ddle. [Reads the other letter.'] * My cousin Clar- 
« rmda has told som.e things of you that very much 
* alarm me; but I am'wiUing to suspend my belief 
« ot^hem till I see you, which I desire may beat my 
« Lady Sadhfe's at seven this evening.'— The devil ! 


the same place!—* As you value the real friendship 
« of your Incognita.' 

So, now the riddle's out— the rival queeris are fairly 
come to a reference, and one or both of tliem I must 
lose, that's positive. Hard! 

£K/^r Clerimont. 
Hard fortune ! Now, poor Impudence, what will be- 
come of thee ? Oh, Clerimont, such a complication 
cf adventures since 1 saw thee f such sweet hopes, 
fea.s, and unaccountable difficulties, sure never poor 
dog was surrounded with. 

Cter. Oh, you are an mdustrions person! you'll get 
over them. But, pray, let's hear. 

At. To begin, then, in the climax of my misfor- 
tunes :— In the first place, the private lodgings that 
my incognita appointed to receive me in, prove to be 
the very individual habitation of my other mistress, 
whom (to complete the blunder of my ill luck) she 
civilly introduced in person, to recommend me to her 
better acquaintance. 

Cler. Ha, hal Death! how could you stand them 
both together ? 

At. The old way— buff— I stuck like a burr to my 
name of Freeman,' addressed my incognita before the 
otlier's face, and with a most unmoved good- breed- 
ing, harmlessly faced her down I had never seen hei 
in my life before. 

Cler. The prettiest modesty I ever heard oil Well, 
but how did they discover you at last ? 


ylt. Why, faith, the matter's yet in suspence; and 
I find by both their letters, that they don't yet well 
know what to think: (but, to go on with my luck) 
you must know, they have since both appointed me, 
by several names, to meet them at one and the same 
place, at seven o'clock this evening. 
Cler, Ah! 

At, And, lastly, to crown my fortune (as if the 
devil himself most triumphantly rodea-straddle upon 
my ruin) the fatal place of their appointment happens 
to be the very house of a third lady, with whom I 
niade an acquaintance since morning, and had just be- 
fore sent word I would visit near the same hour this 

Cler, Oh, murder! Poor Atall, thou art really 
fallen under the last degree of compassion. 

At. And yet, with a little of thy assistance, in the 
middle of their small-shot, I don't still despair of 
holding my head above water. 

Cler. Death I but you can n't meet them both ; you 
must lose one of them, unless you can split yourself. ^ 

At. Pr'ythee, don't suspeCl my courage or my 
modesty; for I'm resolved to go on, if you will stand 
by me. 

Cler. Faith, my very curiosity would make me do 
tha^. But what can I do ? 

At, You must appear for me, upon occasion, in 

Cler. With all my lieart. What else ? 


At. I shall want a queen's messenger in my interest, 
or rather one that can personate one. 

Cler. Thai's easily found— But what to do ? 

At. Come along, and I'll tell you ; for first I must 
answer their letters. 

Cler. Thou art an original, faith. [Exeunt* 


Changes to Sir SoLOMON'i House. Enter Sir Solomon 
leading Lady Sad Lit £i a/z^ Wishwell, Aer Woman, 

Sir Sol. There, madam, let me have no more of 
these airings. — -No good, I am sure, can keep a wo- 
man five or six hours abroad in a. morning. 

L. Sad. You deny me all the innocent freedoms of 

Sir Soi. Ha! you have the modish cant of this end 
of the town, I see ; intriguing, gaming, gadding, and 
party-quarries, with a pox to them, are innocent free- 
doms, forsooth 1 

L. Sad. I don't know wljat you mean ; I'm sure I 
have not one acquaintance in the world that does an 
ill thing. 

Sir Sol. They must be better looked after than your 
ladyship then; but I'll mend my hands as fast as I 
can. Do you look to your reputation henceforward, 
and I'll take care of your person. 

L. Sad. You wrong my virtue with these unjust 


Sir SoL Ay, it's no matter for that ; better T wrong 
it than you. Til secure my doors for this day at least. 


L. Sad. Oh, Wishwell ! what shall I do ? 

TVisk. What's the matter, madam ? 

L. Sad. I expefl a letter from a gentleman every 
minute ; and if it should fall into Sir Solomon's hands, 
I'm ruined past redemption. 

fVisL He won't suspe^^ it, madam, sure, if they are 
directed to me, as they used to be. 

L. Sad. Hut his jealousy's grown so violent of late, 
there's no trusting to it now. If he meets it, I shall 
be locked up for ever. 

TVisk. Oh, dear madam! I vow your ladyship 
frights me—Why, he'll kill me for keeping counsel. 

L. Sad. Run to the window, quick, and watch the 
messenger. [jExz/ Wish.] Ah, there's my ruin near ! 

—I feel it— [y^ knocking aUhe dvor.'\ What shall I 

do ? Be very insolent, or very humble, and cry ? — I 
have known some women, upon these occasions, out- 
strut their husbands' jealousy, and make them ask 
pardon for finding them out. Oh, lud, here he comes! 

— I cann't do't; my courage fitits me 1 must e'en 

stick to my handkerchief, and trust to nature. 

Re-enter Sir Solomon, taking a Letter from Finder. 
Sir Sol. Sir, 1 shall make bold to read this letter ; 
and if you have a' mind to save your bo^s, there's 
your way out. 


Fiji. Oh, terrible 1 I sha'n't have a whok one ia 
my skin, when I C(?me home to my master. \_Exit. 

L, Sad. \^Aside.^ I'm lost for ever I 

Sir Sol. ^^Reads.'] * Pardon, most divine creature, 
the impatience of my heart,' — Very well ! these are 
her innocent freedomsl Ah, cockatrice! — 'which 
languishes for an opportunity to convince you of its 

sincerity;' Oh, the tender son of a whore! 

* which nothing could relieve, but the sweet hope of 
seeing you this evening.' — Poor lady, whose virtue I 
have wronged with unjust suspicions ! 

L. Sad, I'm ready to sink with apprehension. 

Sir Sol. \_R€ads.'\ * To-night, at seven, expeft your 
dying Strephon.' — Die, and be damn'd ; for I'll re- 
move your comforter, by cutting jier throat. I could 
find in my heart to ram his impudent letter into her 
windpipe Ha ! what's this ! * To Mrs. Wish- 
well, my Lady Sadlife's woman.' Ad, I'm glad of 

it, with all my heart I What a happy thing it is to 
have one's jealousy disappointed! — Now have I been 
^cursing my poor wife for the mistaken wickedness of 
that trollop. 'Tis'well I kept my thoughts to myself: 
for the virtue of a wife, when wrongfully accused, is 
most unmercifully insolent. Come, I'll do a great 

thing ; Til kiss her, and make her amends What's 

the matter, my dear T Has any thing frighted you ? 
L. 5^^.^Nothing but your hard usage. 
Sir Scl. Come, come, dry thy tears ; it shall be so 
no more. But, hark ye, I have made a discovery 


here— Your Wishvvell, I'm afraid, is a slut ; she has 
an intrigue. 

L. Sad. An intrigue! Heavens, in our family 1 

Sir Sol. Read there— I wish she be honest. 

/.. Sad. Howl If there be the least ground to 

think it, Sir Solomon, positively she sha'n t stay a mi- 
nute in the house— Impudent creature !— have an af- 
fair with a man ! 

Sir Sol. But hold, my dear; don't let your virtue- 
censure too severely neither. 

I. Sad. I shudder at the thoughts of her. 

Sir Sol. Patience, I say— How do we know but his 
courtship may be honourable ? 

L. Sad. That, indeed, requires some pause. 

TTisL [Peeping in-] So, all's safe, 1 see—He thinks 

^the letter's to me Oh, good madam! that letter 

was to me, the fellow says. I wonder, sir, how you 
could serve one so I If my sweetheart should hear 
you had opened it, I know he would j?ot have me, so 
he would not. 

Sir Sol. Never fear that ; for if he is in love with 
you, he's too much a fool to value being laughed at. 

L. Sad. If it be yours, here, take your stuff; and 
■ next time, bid him take better care, than to send his 
letter so publicly. 

JVi'sh. Yes, madam. But now your ladyship has 
read it, I'd fain beg the honour of Sir Solomon to an« 
swer it for me; for I cann't write. 

L. Sad. Not write 1 

Sir Sol, Nay, he thinks she's above that, I supppse; 


for he calls her divine creature A pretty piece of 

divinity, truly ! But, come, my dear ; 'egad, we'll 

answer it for her. Here's paper you shall do it. 

L. Sad. I, Sir Solomon ! Lard, I won't write to 

fellows, not I 1 liope he won't take me at my 

word. [Aside, 

Sir Sol. Nay, you shall doit. Come, it will get her 
a good husband. 

TVisk. Ay, pray good madam, do. 

Sir Soi. Ah, how eager the jade is! 

Z. Sad. I cann't tell how to write to any body but 
yon, my dear. 

Sir Sol. Well, well, I'll diftate then. Come, begin. 

L. Sad. Lard, this is the oddest fancy ! 

[Sits to write. 

Sir Sol. Come, come Dear sir— (for we'll be as 

loving as he, for his ears.) 

Wisk. No, pray madam, begin, Dear honey, or, My 
dearest angel. 

L. Sad. Out, you fool 1 you must not be so fond- 
Dear sir, is very well. [Writes. 

Sir Sol. Ay, ay, so 'tis; but these young fillies are 
for setting out at the top of their speed. But, pr'ythee, 
.Wishwell, what is thy lover; for the stile of his let-, 
ter may serve for a countess ? 

Wisk. Sir, he's but a butler at present ; but he's a 
good schollard, as you may see by his hand-writing ; 
and in time may come to be a steward j and then we 
^a'n't be long without a coach, sir^ 


L. Sad. Dear sir What must I write next ? 

Sir Sol. Why [Musipg. 

Wish. Hoping you are in good health, as I am at 
this present writing. 

Sir SoL You puppy, he'll laugh at you. 

PVisA. I'm sure my mother used to begin all her 
letters so. 

Sir SoL And thou art every inch of thee her own 
daughter, that I'll say for thee. 

L. Sad. Come, I have done it. [licads.] * Dear 
sir, She must have very little merit that is insensible 
of yours.' 

Sir SoL Very well, faith! Write all yourself. 

fVisk. Ay, good madam, do ; that's better than', 
ntine. But, pray, dear madam, let it end with, So I 
rest your dearest loving friend, till death us do part. 

L. Sad. [Aside.'] This absurd slut will make me 
laugh out. 

Sir SoL But, hark you, hussy; suppose now you 
should be a little scornful and insolent to shew your 
breeding, and a little ill-natured in it to shew your 

Wisk. Ay, sir, that is, if I designed him for my gaU 
Jant; but since he is to be but my husband, I must be 
very good-natured and civil before I have him, and 
huff him, and shew my wit after. 

Sir SoL Here's a jade for you I [Aside.'] But why 
must you huff your husband, hussy ? 

Wiski Oh, sir, that's to give him a good opinion oi 
my virtue! for you know, sir, a husband cann't think. 

y^£? ///. TH E D O U R L E G A L LA N T. 5^ 

one could be so very domineering, if one were not 
very honest. 

Sir Scl. 'Sbiid, this fool, on my conscience, speaks 
tlie sense of the wliole sex ! [Aside. 

Wish. Then, sir, I have been told, that a husband 
loves one the better, the more one hectors him; as a 
Spaniel does, tlie more one bears him. 

SirSoL Ka \ thyluisband will have a blessed timeon't^ 

L. Sad. So 1 have done. 

Wish. Oh, pray madam, read it ! 

L. Sad. \_Reads.'\ ' Dear Sir — She must have very 
little merit that is insensible of yours ; and while you 
continue to love, and tell me so, expert whatever you 
can hope from so much wit, and such unfeigned sin- 
cerity At the hour you mention, you will be truly 

welcome to your passionate ~' 

Wish. Oh, madam, it is not half kind enough I 
Pray, put in some more dears. 

^irSol. Ay, ay, sweeten it well ; let it be all syrup> 
with a pox to her. 

Wish. Every line should have a dear sweet sir in it, 
so it should he'll think I don't love him else. 

Sir Sol. Poor moppet ! 

L. Sad. No, no, 'tis better now — Well, what must 
be at the' bottom, to answer Strephon \ 

Sir Sol. Pray, let her divine ladyship sign Abigail. 

Wish. No^ pray, madam, put down Lipsamintha. 

Sir Sol. Lipsamintha I 

L. Sad. No, come, 14! write Celia. Here, go in 
'and seal it. 



Sir Sol. Ay, come, I'll lend you a wafer, that he 
may'n't wait for your diviniryship. 

Wish. Pshaw ! you always flout one so 

\_Exeunt Sir Sol. and Wish. 

Z. Sad. So, this is luckily over -Well, I see, a 

woman should never be discouraged from coming off 
at the greatest plunge; for though I was half dead 
with the fright, yet, now I am a little recovered, I 


That apprehension does the bliss endear ; 

The real danger's nothing to the fear. [Exit. 


Sir SoLOMON*5. Enter Lady Sadlife, AtalLj and 
Wish WELL, with lights. 

Lady Sadlife. 
This room, I think, is pleasanter; if you please, 

we'll sit here, sir-- Wishwell, shut the door, and 

take the key o'th' inside, and set chairs. 

Wish. Yes, madam. 

L. Sad. Lard, sir, what a strange opinion you must 
have of me, for receiving your visits upon so slender 
an acquaintance. 

At. I have a much strani.'er opinion, madam, of 
your ordering your servant to lock herself in with us. 

Z/. Sad. Oh,*you would not have vis wait upon our- 
«elvei I 


At. Really, inadain, I cann't conceive that two lo- 
vers, alone, have much occasion for atte^idance. 

[Tfify sif.. 

L, Sad. Lovers! Lard, how you talk I Cann't 
people conve?se without that stuff? 

At. Um — Yes, madam, people may ; but without a 
little of that stuff, conversation is generally very apt 
to be insipid. 

L. Sad. Pooh ! whj*^ we can say any thing without 
her hearing, you see. 

At. Ay ; but if we should talk ourselves up to an 
occasion of being without her, it would look worse to 
send her out, than to have let her wait without when 
she was out. 

: Z. Sad. You are pretty hard to please, I find, sir, 
Sonne men, I believe, would tliink themselves well 
used in so free a reception as yours. 

At. Ha ! I see this is like to come to nothing this 
time ; so I'll e'en put her out of humour, that I may 
get off in time to my incognita, [Aside.'] Really, ma- 
dam, I can never think m.y self free, where my hand 
aiid niy tongue are tied. [Pointing to Wish. 

L. Sad. Your conversation, I find, is very different 
from what it was, sir. 

At. With submission, 'madam, I think it very pro- 
per for the place we are in. If you had sent for me 
only to sip tea, to sit still, and be civil, with my hat 
under my arm, like a strange relation from Ireland, 
or so, why was I. brought hither with so much caution 
and privacy ? , [Sir Solom.on knocks at the doar, 

F jij 


Wish. Oh, heavens, my master, madam I 

Sir Sol. [Wit/dn] Open the door there! 

L. Sad. What shall we do ? 

^^. Nothing now, I'm sure. 

L. Sad. OpQn the door, and say the gentleman came 
to you. 

IVis/i. Oh, lud, madam, 1 shall never be able ro ma- 
nage it at so short a warning 1 We had better shut 

the gentleman into the closet, and say he came to no- 
body at all. 

L. Sad. In, ia then, for mercy's sake, quickly, sir I 

^t. So— this is like to be very pretty business! 

Oh, success and impudence, thou hast quite forsaken 
jj^g j [^E&ters the closet. 

Wish. Do you step into your bed-chamber, madam, 
and leave my master to me. \^Exit Lady Sadlife. 

Wish WELL opens the door, and Sir Solomon enters. 

Sir Sol. What's the reason, mistress, I am to be 
locked out of my wife's apartment ? 

Wish. My lady was washing her— her — neck, sir, 
and i could not come any sooner. 
■ Sir Sal. I'm sure I heard a man's voice, [y/side.l 

Bid your lady come hither. [Exit Wishwell.] He 

must be hereabouts 'tis so ; all's out, all's over 

now : the devil has.done his worst, and I am a cuckold 
in spite of my wisdom. 'Sbud I now an Italian 
would poison his wife for this, a Spaniard would stab 
her, and a Turk would cut off her head with a scy- 
mitar ; but a poor dog of an English cuckold now can 


only squabble and call names Hold, here she 

comes I must smother my jealousy, that her guilt 

mayn't be upon its guard. 

£;z;cr Zfl^7 SaDLIFE fln^ WiSHWELL. 

Sir Sol. My dear, how do you do \ Come hither, 
and kiss me. 

L, Sad. I did not expe^ you home so soon, my 

dear. , 

Sir Sol. Poor rogue ! 1 don't believe you did, 

v^ith a pox to you. \Aside.-] Wishwell, go down j I 

have business with your lady. 

WisL Yes, sir— but I'll watch you; for I am afraid 

this good-humour has mischief at the bottom of it. 

L. Sad. I scarce know whether he's jealous or 


Sir Sol. Now dare not I go near that closet door, 
lest the murderous dog should poke a hole in my guts 

through the key^hole.. Um 1 have an old 

thought in my head ay, and that will discover the 

whole bottom of her affair. 'Tis better to seem not 
to know one's dishonour, when one has not courage 
enough to revenge it. 

L. Sad. I don't like his looks, methinks. 

Sir Sol. Odso! what have I forgot now ? Pr'ythee, 
my dear, step into my study ; for I am so weary ! and 
in the uppermost parcel of letters, you'll find one. 
that I received from Yorkshire to-day, in the scru- 


toir; bring it down, and some paper; I will answer 
it while T think on't. 

L. Sad. If you please to lend me your key— But 
had you not better write in your study, my dear ? 

Sir Sol. No, no; I tell you, Vm so tired, I am not 
able to walk. There, make haste. 

L. Sad. Would all were well over! \Exit. 

Sir Sol. *Tis so, by her eagerness to be rid of me. 
Well, since I find I dare not behave myself like a 
man of honour in this business, I'll at least z3. like 
a person of prudence and penetration ; for sav, should 
I clap a brace of slugs now in the very bowels of this 
rascal, it may hang me ; "but if it does not, it cann't 
divorce me. No, I'll e'en put out the candles, and 
in a soft, gentle whore's voice, desire the gentleman 
to walk about his business ; and if I can get him out 
before my wife returns, I'll fairly post myself in his 
room ; and so, when she comes to set him at liberty, 
in the dark, I'll humour the cheat, till I draw her 
into some casual confession of the fa6l, and then this 
injured front shall bounce upon her h'ke a thunder- 
bolt, [Puts out the candles. 

Wish. [Behind ] Say you so, sir > I'll take care my 
lady shall be provided for you* [Exit. 

Sir Sol, Hist, hist, sir, sir ! 

Enter At A L Lfrom the Closet. 

At. Is all clear ? May I venture, madam ? 

Sir Sol. Ay, ay, quick, quick ! make haste before 


Sir Solomon returns. A strait. back'd dog, I war- 
rant him. [/fWe.] But when shall I see you again ? 

Jt. Whenever you'll promise me to make a better 
use of an opportunity. 

Sir SoL Ha ! then 'tis possible he mayn't yet have 
put the finishing stroke to me. 

At. Is this the door ? 

Sir SoL Ay, ay, away. [Exit Atall.] So— now the 
danger of being murdered is over, I find my courage 
returns: and if I catch my wife but inclining to be 
no better than she should be, I'm not sure that blood 
won't be the consequence. 

He goes into the Closet, and Wish WELL enters. 
Wish. So— my lady has her cue; and if my wise 
master can give her no better proofs of his penetra- 
tion than tliis, she'd be a greater fool than he if she 
should not do vvh^t she has a mind to. Sir, sir, come, 
you may come out now ; Sir Solomon's gone. 

Enter Sir SoLO'SloiSiJ'rom the Closet. 

Sir SoL So, now for a soft speech, to set her im- 
pudent blood in a ferment, and then let it out with 
my penknife. [Aside.] Come, dear creature, now let's 
make the kindest use of our opportunity. 

Wish. Not for the world. If Sir Solomon should 
come again, I should be ruined. Pray, begone— I'll 
send to you to-morrow. 

Sir SoL Nay, now you love me not ; you would not 
lei me part else thus unsatisfied, . 


IVhh. Now yovi're unkind. You know I love you, 
or I should not run siicli hazards for you. 

Sir SqL Foiid whore! [Aside.^ Bat I'm afraid you 
love Sir Solomon, and lay up all your tenderness for 

Wish. Oil, ridiculous ! How can so sad a wretch 

give you the least uneasy thought ? 1 loath the 

very sight of him. 

Sir Sol. Damn'd, infernal strumpet! — —I can bear 
no longer Lights, lights, within there^ [Seizes her. 

Wish. Ah! [Shrieks.] Who's this? Help! murder! 

Sir Sol. No, traitress, don'-t think to 'scape me ; 
for, now I've trapped thee in thy guilt, I could find 
in my heart to have ttiee flead alive, thy skin stuffed, 
and hung up in the middle of Guildhall, as a terrible 
consequence of cuckoldom to the whole city — Lights 
there I ♦ 

Enter Lady Sad life with a Light. 

h. Sad. Oh, Heavens ! what's the matter ? 

[Sir Solomon looks astonished. 
Ha ! what do I see ? My servant on the floor, and Sir 
Solomon offering rudeness to her ! Oh, I cann't bear 
itH Oh! [Falls into a chair. 

Sir Sol. What has tlie devil been doing here ? 

L. Sad. This the reward of all my virtue! Oh, re- 
venge, revenge ! 

Sir Sol. My dear, my good, virtuous, injured dear, 
be patient ; for here has been such wicked doings — 

L. Sad. Oh, torture 1 Do you own it too ? 'Tis 


well my love prote^s you. But for this wretch, this 
monster, this sword shall do m* justice on her. 

\^Runs at Wishwell with Sir Solomon's sword. 

Sir SoL Oh, hold, my poor mistaken dear ! This 
horrid jade, the gods can tell, is innocent forme; 
but she has had, it seewis, a strong dog in the closet 
here; which I suspecting, put myself into his place, 
and had almost trapped her in the very impudence of 
her iniquity. 

L. Sad. Kow I I'm glad to find he dares not own 
'twas his jealousy of me [y^szde. 

Wish. [Krieeizng.'] D%^.r madam, I hope your lady- 
ship will pardon the liberty I took in your absence, 
in bringing my haver into your ladyship's chamber ; 
but Idid not think you would come home from pray- 
ers so soon } and so 1 was forced to hide him in that 
closet : but my master suspeding the business, it 
seems, turned him out unknown to me, and then put 
himself there, and so had a mind to discover whether 
there was any harm between us j and so, because he 
fancied I had been naught with him 

Sir Sol. Ay, my dear; and the jade so con- 
foundedly fond of. me, Ihat I grew out of all patience, 
and fell upon her like a fury. 

L. Sad. Horrid creature !—— And does she think 
10 stay a minute in the family after such impudence ? 

Sir SoL Hold, my dear for if this should be the 

man that is to marry her, you know there may be no 
harm done yet. 

IViik. Yes, it was he indeed, madam. 


SirSoi. [Aside.] I must not let the jade be turned 
away, for fear she sliould put it in my wife's head 
that I hid myself to discover her ladyship, and then 
the devil would not be able to live in the house with 

Wish. Now, sir, you know what I can tell of you. 
[/iside to Sir Solomon. 

Sir SoL Mum — that's a good girl ; there's a guinea 
for you. 

L. Sad. Well, upon your intercession, my dear, 
I'll pardon her this fault. But, pray, mistress, let roe 
hear of no more such doings. I am so disordered 
.with this fright Fetch my prayer-book ; I'll en- 
deavour to compose myself. [Exit L. Sad. and Wish. 

Sir SoU Ay, do so ; that's my good dear— —What 
two blessed escapes have I had 1 to find myself no 
cuckold at last, and, which had been equally terrible, 

my wife not know I wrongfully susped:ed her! 

Well, at length I am fully convinced of her virtue — 
and now, if i can but cut off the abominable expence 
that attends some of her impertinent acquaintance, I 
shall shew myself a Machiavel. 

Re-enter Wishwell. 

Wish. Sir, here's my Lady Dainty come to wait 
upon my lady. 

Sir Sol. I'm sorry for't, with all my heart — Why 
did you say she was within ? 

JVisL Sir, she did not ask if she was; but she's 
never denied to her. 


Sir Sol. Gadso ! why then, if you please to leave 
lier ladyship to me, I'll begin with her now. 

Wish WELL brings in Lady Dainty. 

L. Dain. Sir Solomon, your very humble servant. 
Sir Sol. Yours, yours, madam. 
L. Dain. Where's my lady ? 

Sir Sol. Where your ladyship very seldom is ^at 


Enter Lady Sad life. 

L. Sad. My dear Lady Dainty ! 

L. Dain. Dear madam, I am the happiest person 
alive in finding your ladyship at home. 

Sir Sol. So, now for a torrent of impertinence. 

L. Sad. Your ladyship does me a great deal of ho- 

L. Dain. I am sure I do myself a great deal of 
pleasure. I have made at least twenty visits to-day. 
Oh, I'm quite dead ! not but my coach is very easy 
— yet so much perpetual motion, you know 

Sir Sol. Ah, pox of your disorder! — If I had the 
providing your equipage, odzooks, you should rum- 
ble to your visits in a wheel-barrow. [Aside. 

L. Sad. Was you at my Lady Dutchess's > 

L, Dain. A little while. 

L. Sad. Had she a great circle ? 

L, Dain. Extreme 1 was not able to bear th^ 

breath of so much company. 

Lj, Sad. You did not dine there ? 


L. Dain. Oh, I cann't touch any body's dinner but 

my own! and I have almost killed myself this 

week, for want of my usual glass of Tokay, after my 
ortolans and Muscovy duck-eggs. 

Sir Sol. 'Sbud, if I had the feeding of you, I'd 
bring you, in a fortnight, to neck-beef, and a pot of 
plain bub. [^side, 

L. Dain. Then I have been so surfeited with the 
sic'ht of a hideous entertainment to-day, at my Lady 
Cormorant's, who knov/s no otiier happiness, or way 
of making one welcome, than eating or drinking : for 
though she saw 1 was just fainting at her vast limbs 
of butcher's meat, yet the civil savage forced me to 
sit down, and heaped enough upon my plate to vi(5tual 
a fleet for an East-India voyage. 

LtSad. How could you bear it ? Ha, ha 1 Does 

your ladyship never go to the play ? 

/,. Dfifra. Never, but when I bespeak it myself; 
and then not to mind the aftorsj for its common to 
love sights. My great diversion is, in reposed posture, 
to turn my eyes upon the galleries, and bless myself 
to hear the happy savages laugh ; or when an aukward 
citizen crowds herself in amcxng us, 'tis an unspeakable 
pleasure to contemplate her airs and dress : and they 
never 'scape me ; for I am as apprehensive of such a 
creature's coming near me, as some people are when 
a cat is in the room.— But the play is begun, I believe; 
and if your ladyship has an inclination, I'll wait upon 

L.Sad, I think, madam, we cann'r do better; and 


here comes Mr. Careless most opportunely to 'squire 

Sir Sol. Careless I I don't know him ; but my wife 
does, and that's as well. 

Enter Carci.lss, 

Care. Ladies, your servant. Seeing your coach at 

the door, madam, made me not able to resist this op- 
portunity to— to — you know, rnadam, there's no time 
to be lost in love. Sir Solomon, your servant. 

Sir Sol. Oh, yours, yours, sir!— —A very impu- 
dent fellow; and I'm in hopes will marry her. 

[ Aside, 

L. Bain. The assurance of this creature almost 
grows diverting : all one can do, cann't make him 
the least sensible of a discouragement. 

L. Sad. Try what compliance will do ; perhaps 
that may fright him. 

L. Dain. If it were not too dear a remedy—One 
would almost do any thing to get rid of his company. 

Care. Which you never will, madam, till you 
marry me, depend upon it. Do that, and I'll trouble 
you no more. 

Sir Sol. This fellow's abominable ! He'll certainly 
have her. [Aside. 

L. Dain. There's no depending upon your word, 
or else I might ; for the last time I saw you, you told 
me then, you would trouble me no more. 

Care. Ay, that's true, madam ; but to keep one^s 
word, you know, looks like a tradesman. 


Sir Sff/. Impudent rogue! But hcMl have her. — 

Care, And is as much bfelow a gentleman as pay- 
ing one's debts. 

Sir SoL If he is not hanged first. [/^side. 

Care. Besides, madam, I considered that my ab- 
sence might endanger your constitution, which is so 
very tender, that nothing but love can save it ; and 
so I would e'en advise you to throw away your juleps, 
your cordials, and slops, and take me all at once. 

L. Dain. No, sir, bitter potions are not to be taken 
so suddenly. 

Care. Oh, to choose, madam; for if you stand mak- 
ing of faces, and kicking against it, you'll but increase 
your aversion, and delay the cure. Come, come, you 
must be advised. {^Pressing her. 

L. Dain. What mean you, sir ? 

Care. To banish all your ails, and be myself your 
universal medicine. 

Sir Sol. Well said ! hcMl have her. [y/side, 

L. Dain. Impudent, robust man; I protest, did 
not I know his family, J should think his parents had 
not lived in chairs and coaches, but liad used their 
limbs all their lives ! Hu ! hu ! but I begin to be 
persuaded health is a great blessing. [Aside, 

Care. My limbs, madam, were conveyed to me be- 
fore the use of chairs and coaches, and it might lessen 
the dignity of my ancestors, not to use them as tliey 

L. Dain. Wqs ever such a rude understanding i to 


value himself upou the barbarism of his fore-fathers. 

Indeed I have heard of kings that were bred to 

the plough, and, I fancy, you might descend from 
such a race j for you court as if you were behind one 

Huh! huhl huh I To treat a woman of quality like 

an Exchange wench, and express your passion with 
your arms : — unpolished man ! 

Care. I was willing, madam, to take from the vul- 
gar the only desirable thing among them, and shew 
you— how they live so healthy— for they have no 
other remedy. 

X. Dain, A very rough medicine I huh ! huh 1 
Care. To those that never took it, it may seem so— 
L. Dain. Abandoned ravisher I Oh I [Struggling. 
Sir Sol. He has her ; he has her. [Aside. 

L. Dain. Leave the room, and see my face n© 

Care. [Bozos and is going.'] 

L. Dain. And, hark ye, sir, no bribe, no media- 
tions to my woman. 
Care. [Bows and sighs.'] 

L. Dain. Thou profligate! to hug! to clasp I to 
embrace and throw your robust arms about me, like 
a vulgar, and indelicate— Oh, I faint with apprehen- 
sion of so gross an address \ 

[ShefaintSy and Care, catches her. 
Care. Oh, my offended fair 1 
/.. Dain. Inhuman 1 ravisher! Oh I 

[Care, carries her qf^ 
G iij 


Sir Sol. He has her 1 she's undone! he has her ! 

\_Exeunt Sir Sol. and Lady Sad. 

Enter Clarinda and Sylvia. 
Clar. Well, cousin, what do you think of your 
gentleman now ^ 

Syl. I fancy, madam, tliat would be as proper a 
question to ask you: for really I don't see any great 
reason to alter my opinion of him yet. 

Clar. Now I could dash her at once, and shew it 
her under his own hand that his name's Standfast, and 
he'll be here in a quarter of an hour. \_/hide.'] I vow 
I don't think I ought to refuse you any service in ray 
power; therefore if you think it worth your while 
not to be out of countenance when the colonel comes, 
I would advise you to withdraw now ; for if you dare 
take his own word for it, he will be here in three mi- 
nutes, as this may convince you. [Qives a Utter, 

Syl. What's here ? a letter from Colonel Standfast > 

—Really, cousin, I have nothing to say to him. r 

Mr. Freeman's the person I'm concerned for, and I 
expect to see him here in a quarter of an hour. 

C/ar. Then you don't believe them both the sam? 
person ? 

Syl. Not by their hands or stile, I can assure you, 
as this may convince you. \_Gives a letter. 

Clar. Ha! the hand is different indeed. 1 scarce 

know what to think, — and yet I'm sure my eyes were 
not deceived. 

SyL Come, cousin, let's be a little cooler ; *tis not 


impossible but we may have both laughed at one 
another to no purpose — for I am confident they are 
two persons. 

Clar. I cann't tell that, but I'm sure here comes 
one of them. 

Enter Atall as Colonel Standfast. 

Syl. Ha ! 

y^t. Hey 1 Bombard, (there they are faith I j bid the 
chariot set up, and call again about one or two in the 

morning. You see, madam, what 'tis to give an 

impudent fellow the least encouragement: I'm re- 
solved now to make a night on't with you. 

Clar. I am afraid, colonel, we shall have much ado 
to be good company, for we are two women to one 
man, you see ; and if we should both have fancy to 
have you particular, I doubt you'd make but bung- 
ling work on't. 

At. I warrant you we will pass our time like gods : 
two ladies and one man ; the prettiest set for Ombre 
in the universe. — Come, come ! Cards, cards, cards I 
and tea, that I insist upon. 

Clar. Well, sir, if my cousin will make one, I won't 
balk your good-humour. [Turning Syl. to face him* 

At. Is the lady your relation, madam?—! beg the 
honour to be known to her. 

Clar. Oh, sir, that Tm sure she cann't refuse you. 

= Cousin, this is Colonel Standfast. [Laughs aiide.'^ 

I hope now she's convinced. 


At. Your pardon, madam, if I am a little parti- 
cular in my desire to be known to any of this lady's 
relations, [Salutes, 

Syl, You'll certainly deserve mine, sir, by being 
always particular to tljat lady. 

At, Oh, madam ! — Tall, lall. [Turns away and sings » 

Syl. Thh assurance is beyond example. [Aside, 

Clar, How do you do, cousin ? 

Syl. Beyond bearing — but not incurable. [Aside, 

Clar. [Aside.^^ Now cann*t I find in my heart to 
give him one angry word for his impudence to me 
this morning ? the pleasure of seeing my rival morti- 
fied makes me strangely good-natured. 

At,-[Turning familiarly to Clar.] Upon my soul 
you are provokingly handsome to-day. Ay Gad I 
why is not it high treason for any beautiful woman to 
marry ? 

Clar. What, would you have us lead apes ? 

At. Not one of you, by all that's lovely! Do 

you think we could not find you better employment? 

Death I what a hand is here? ^Gad, I shall 

grow foolisjil 

Clar, Stick to your assurance, and you are in no 

At, Why then, in obedience to your commands, 
pr\vthee answer me sincerely one question :, How 
long do you really design to make me dangle thus ? 

Clar. Why, really I cann't just set you a time; 
but when you ace weary of your service, come to mr 


with a six-pence and modesty, and I'll give you a 

At. Thou insolent, provoking, handsome tyrant 1 

Ciar. Come, let me go this is not a very civil 

way of entertaining my cousin, methinks. 

At. I beg her pardon indeed. [Bozving to SyL] But 
lovers, you know, madam, may plead a sort of ex- 
cuse for being singular, when the favourite fair's in 
company. — But we were talking of cards, ladies. 

Ciar. Cousin, what say you? 

SyL I had rather you would excuse me ; I am a 
little unfit for play at this time. 

At. What a valuable virtue is assurance 1 Now am 
I as intrepid as a lawyer at the bar. \_Aside, 

Clar. Bless me I you are not well 1 

SyL I shall be presently. Pray, sir, give me 

leave to ask you a question. 

At. So, now it*s coming ! [y^side.] Freely, madam. 

Syi. Look on me well : — liave you never seen my 
face before ? 

At. Upon my Word, madam, I cann't recollect that 
I have. 

SyL I am satisfied. 

At. But pray, madam, why m.ay you ask ? 

SyL I am too much disordered now to tell you 

But if I'm not deceived, I'm miserable. [IVeeps, 

At. This is strange. How her concern trans- 
ports me I 

Clar. Her fears have touched me, and half persuade 
m« to revenge them. Come, cousin, be easy : I 


see you are convinced he is the same, and now I'll 
jprove myself a friend. 

Syl. I know not what to think- my senses are 

confounded : their features are indeed the same; and 
yet there's something in their air, their dress, and 
manner, strangely different : but be it as it will, all 
right to him in presence I disclaim, and yield to'you 
for ever. 

" At. Oh, charming, joyful grief! [Aside.** 

Clar. No, cousin, believe it, both our senses cannot 
be deceived ; he's individually the same; and since 
he dares be base to you, he's miserable indeed, if 
flattered with a distant hope of me : I know his per- 
son and his falseliood both too well ; and you shall 
see I will, as becomes your friend, resent it. 

At. What means this strangeness, madam ? 

Clar. I'll tell you, sir ; and to use few words, know 
then, this lady and myself have borne your faithless 
insolence and artifice too long : but that you may not 
think to impose on me, at least, I desire you would 
leave the house, and from this monUnt never see me 

At. Madam ! What ! what is all this ? 
Riddle me riddle me re, 
For the devil take me - 
For ever from thee, 
I If I can divine what this riddle can be. 

Syl, Not moved! I'm more amazed. 

^t. Pray, madam, in the name of common sense, 
kt me know in two words what the real meaning of 


your last terrible speech was ; and if I don't make 
you a plain, honest, reasonable answer to it, be 
pleased the next minute to blot my name oik« of your 
table-book, never more to be inrolled in the sense- 
*less catalogue of those vain coxcombs, that impu- 
dently hope to come into your favour. 

Clar. This insolence grows tedious : what end can 
you propose by this assurance ? 

At. Hey-day ! 

Syl. Hold, cousin one moment's patience : I'll 

send this minute again to Mr. Freeman, and if he 
does not immediately appear, the dispute will need 
no farther argument. 

At, Mr. Freemm! Who the devil's he f What 
have I to do with him ? 

Syl. I'll soon inform you, sir. 

[Goingy meets Wishwell entering, 

Wisk. Madam, here's a footman mightily out of 
breath, says he belongs to Mr. Freeman, and desires 
very earnestly to speak with you. 

Syl. Mr. Freeman ! Pray bid him come in.— - 
What can this mean ? 

At* You'll see presently. [^nde. 

Re -enter Wishwell zoith Finder. 

Clar. Hal 

Syl. Come hither, friend : do you belong to Mr. 
Freeman } 

Fin. Yes, madam, and my poor master gives his 
humble service to your ladyship, und begs your par- 


don for not waiting on you according to his promise; 
which he would have done, but for an unfortuate ac- 

Syl. What's the matter ? 

Fin. As he was coming out oi his lodgings to pay 
his duty to you, madam, a parcel of fellows set upon 
him, and said they had a warrant against him; and 
so, because the rascals began to be saucy with him, 
and my master knowing that he did not owe a shilling 
in the world, he drew to defend himself, and in the 
scuffle the bloody villians run one of their swort^s 
quite through his arm ; but the best of the jest was, 
madam, that as soon as they got him into a house, and 
sent for a surgeon, he proved to be the wrong per- 
son ; for their warrant, it seems, was against a poor 
scoundrel, that happens, they say, to be very like him, 
one Colonel Standfast. 

jit. Say you so, Mr. Dog if your master had 

been here I would have given him as much. 

[Gives him a box on. the ear. 

Fin. Oh, Lord! pray, madam, save me — I did not 
speak a word to the gentleman — Oh, the devil I this 
must be the devil in the likeness of my master. 

Syl. Is this gentleman so very like him, say yoiu? 

Fin. Like, madam ! ay, as one box of the ear is like 
to another; only I think, madam, my master's nose is 
a little, little higher. 

At. Now, ladiee, I presume the riddle's solved 

Hark you, where is your master, rascal ? 

Fin. Master, rascal 1 Sir, my master's name's Free- 


man, and I'm a free-born Englishman; and I must 
tell you, sir, that I don't use to take such arbitrary 
socks of the face from any man that does not pay me 
wages; and so my master will tell you too when he 
comes, sir. 

Syl. Will he be here then ? 

Fin. This minute, madam, he only stays to have 
his wound dressed. 

At. I'm resolved I'll stay that minute out, if he 
does not come till midnight. 

Fin. A pox of his mettle — when his hand's in he 
makes no difference between jest and earnest, I find — . 
If he does not pay me well for this, 'egad he shall tell 
the next for himself. [^Asidel Has your ladyship any 
commands to my master, madam ? 

Syl. Yes; pray give him my humble service, say 
I'm sorry for his misfortune ; and if he thinks 'twill 
do his wound no harm, 1 beg, by all means, he may 
be brought hither immediately. 

Fin. 'Shah I his wound, madam, I know he does 
not value it of a rush ; for he'll have the devil and all 
of actions against the rogues for' false imprisonment, 

and smart-money— —Ladies, I kiss your hands ■ 

Sir, I nothing at all [-Exit, 

At. [_Aside.'\ The dog has done it rarely ; for a iie 
upon the stretch I don't know a better rascal in Eu- 

Enter an Ojfflcer. 

Off. Ay! now I'm sure I'm right Is not your 

name Colonel Standfast, sir ? 


At. yes, sir ; v/hat then ? 

Off. Then you are my prisoner, sir = — - 

At. Yonr prisoner ! who the devil are you ? a bai- 
lifFr I don't owe a shilHng. 

Off. I don't care if you don't, sir; I have a war- 
rant against you for high treason, and I must have 
you away this minute. 

At. Look you, sir, depend upou'r, ti i is but some 
impertinent malicious -proserution : you may venture 
to stay a quarter of an hour, I'm sure ; I have some 
business here till then, that concerns me nearej: than 
my life. 

Ciar. Have but so much patience, and I'll satisfy 
you for your civility, 

Off. I coul.i not stay a quarter of an hour, madam, . 
if you'd give me five hundred pounds. 

&yl. Ca.nn't you take bail, sir r 

Off. Bail ! no, no. 

Clar, Whither must he be carried ? 

Off. To my house, till he's examined before the 

Ciar. VVhere is your Iiouse ? 

Off. Just by the secretary's office; every body 
knows Mr. Lockum the messenger — Come, sir. 

At. I cann't stir yet, indeed, sir. 

\_Lays his hand on his szcord. 

Off. Nay, look you, if you are for that play — Corner 
in, gentlemen, away with hitn. 

Enter Mvsqueieers and force him off. 
Syl, This is the strangest accident ; I am extrenjely 


so-ry for the colonel's misfortune, but I am heartily 
glad he is not Mr. Freeman. 

Clar. I'm afraid you'll find him so -I shall neve^ 

•change my opinion of him till I see them face to face. 
. Syl. Well, cousin, let them be two or one, I'm re- 
solved to stick to Mr. Freeman; for, to tell you the 
truth, this last spark has too much of the confident 
rake \ti him to please me ; but there is a modest sir.*^ 
cerity in t'other's conversation that's irfesistible. 

Clar. For my part I'm almost tired with his imper- 
tinence either way, and could find in my heart to trou- 
ble myi^elf no more about him; and yet methinks it 
provokes me to have a fellow outface my senses. 

Syi. Nay, they are strangely alike, I own; but yet, 
if you observe nicely, Mr. Freeman's features are 
more pale and pensive than the colonel's. 
: , Clar. When Mr. Freeman comes, I'll be closer in 
hiy observation of him— in the mean time let me cou- 
sider^vhat I really propose by all this rout I make 
about him : suppose (which I can never believe) tiiey 
should prove two several men at last, 1 don't find 
that Vm fool enough to think of marrying either of 
them; nor (wharever airs I give myself) am I yet 

mad enough to do worse with them Well, smce I 

don't design to come to a close engagement myse!f> 
then why should I not generously stand out of the 
way, and make room for one that would ? No, I 
cann't do that neither— I want, methinks, toconviahim 

first of being one and the same person, and then to have 

him convince my cousin that he likes me better thaa 

H ij 


iier — Ay, that would do ! and to confess myinfirmity, 
I sfill find (though I don't care for this fellow) while 
siie has assurance lo nourish the least hope of getting 
him frcRi me, 1 shall never be heartily easy 'till she'§ 
heartily mortified. [/Jside.- 

SyL You seem very much concerned for the Colo- 
rel's misfortune, cousin. 

. Clar. His misfortunes seldom hold him long, as you 
rr]ay see ; for here he comqs. 

Enter At all, as Mr. Freeman. 

SyL Bless me! 

At. I am sorry, madam, I could not be more punc- 
tual to your obliging commands ; but the r.ccinent 
that prevented my coming sooner, will, I hope, now 
give me a pretence to a better welcome than my last ; 
for now, madam, [To Clar.] your mistake's set right, 
I presume, and, 1 hope, you wcn't expert Mr. Free- 
man to answer for all ihe miscarriages of Colonel 

Clar. Not in the least, sir : the colonel's able to an- 
swer for himself, i find! ha, ha! 

^t. Was not my servant with you, madam ? 


SyL Yes, yes, sir, he has told us all. [^Aside.^ And 
I am sorry you hive paid so dear for a proof of your 
innocence. Come, come, I'd advise you to set your 
heart at rest; for what 1 design, you'll find, I shall 
come to a speedy i evolution in. 

At. Qh; generous leioUiiion \ ' 


Clar. Well, madam, since you are so tenacious of 
vour conquest, I hope you'll give me the same li- 
berty : and not expect, the next time you fall a cry- 
ing at the colonel's gallantry to me, tliat my good - 
nature should give you up my pretensions to him. 
And for you, sir, I shall only tell you, this last plot 
v/as nbt so closely laid, but that a woman of a very 
slender capacity, you'll find, has wit enough to disco- 
verit. . [£xu'CIar. 

At. Sol' she's gone to the messenger's I suppose- 
but, poor soul, her intelligence there will be extreme- 
ly small. lAdde.^ Well, madam, I hope at last your 
scruples are over. 

Sv/. You cann't blame me, sir, if, now we are 
alone, I own myself a little more surprised at her po- 
sitiveness, than ray woman's pride would let me con- 
fess before her face ; and yet melhinks there's a na- 
tive honesty in your locik, that tells me I am not mis- 
taken, and may trust you with my heart. 

At. Oh, for pity btill preserve that tender thought, 
and save nie from despair. 

£?2rfr Clerimont, 
Cl&. Ha! again 1 Is it possible ? 
At. How now, Clerimontj what are you surprised 

Citr, Why to see thee almost in two places at one 
time ; 'tis but this minute, I met the vefy image of thee 
v/ith th^ mob about a coach, in the hands of a messen- 
ger, wliom I had the curiosity to stop and gall to and 


h-:ui no ether proof of his not being thee, but that the 
spark would not know rne ! 

Syl. Strange! lahnostthink I'm really not deceiv-ied. 

C/fr. Twas certainly Clarinda I saw go out in a 
cliair just now— it must be she— the circumstances 
are too strong for a mistake. \^Aside. 

SyL Well, sir, to ease you of your fears, now I 
dare own to you, that mine are over. \To Atall. 

CUr. \V!iat a coxcomb have I made myself, to 
serve my rival even with my own mistress? But 'tis 
at least some ease to know iiim : all I have to hope 
i\, that h-e does not know the ass he has made of me 
—that might indeed be fatal' to him. \_Addt, 

Enter ^YhviiCs Maid. 

Maid. Oh, madam., I'm glad I've found you : your 
father and I have been hunting you all the tov.n over. 

Sjl. My father in town ! 

Maid. He waits below in the coach for you: he 
ir.'-st needs have you come away this minute; and 
talks of having you married this very night to the fine 
gentleman he spoke to you of. 

Sji, What do I hear ? 

^i. If ever soft compassion touched your soul, give 
me a word of comfort in this last distress, to save me 
from the horrors that surround me. 

Sjd. You see we are observed- — but yet depend 

upon my faith as on my life. In the mean time, 

I'll use my utmost power to avoid my father's hasty 
*.vill ; in twg hours you shall Jvno7/ my fortune and 


my family — Now, don't follow me, as you'd preserve 
my friendsliip. Come \_Exit zvitk Maid. 

Jt. Death! liow this news alarms me I I never 
felt the pains of love before. 

Clcr. Now then to ease, or to revenge my fears — 
Tliis sudden rhinge of your countenance, Mr. Atall, 
looks as if you had a mind to banter your friend into 
a belief of your being really in love with the lady that 
just now left you. 

At. Faith, Clerimont, I have too much concern 
upon nie at tius time, to be capable of a banter. 

Cler. Ha! beseems really touched-, and I begin 

now only to fear Clarinda's condu6f. Well, sir, if 

it be so, i'm glad to see a convert of you ; and now, 
in return to the little services I have done you, in 
helping you to can y on your affair with both these 
ladies at one time, give me leave to ask a favour of 
you — ~Be still sincere, and we may still be friends. 

At. You surprise me — but use me as you hnd me. 

Cler. Have you no acquaintance with a certain lady 
whom you have l-uely heard me own i was unfor- 
tunately in love with f 

At. Not tliat I know of, Vm sure not as the lady 
yoU' are in love with ; but, piay, why do you ask ? 

Cler. Come, I'll be sincere with you too : because 
I hhve strong circumstances that convince me 'tis one 
of tiiose two you have been so busy about. 

At. Not she you saw with me, I liope \ 

Cler. No ; I mean the other— But to clear the doubt 
at once, is hsr name Clarinda? 

84 tHE DOUBLE GALLAKt* Ad iK .4 

At. I own it is : but had I the least been warned jj 
fef your pretences — — "; 

Cler. Sir, 1 dare believe you ; and though you may | 
have prevailed even against her lionour, your igno- | 
ranee of my passion for her nukes you stand at least 
eticused to me. 

At. No ; by ail the solemn protestations tongue can 
utter, her honour is untainted yet for me ; nay, even, 
unaf tempted : " nor had i ever an opportunif y, that 
** could encourage the most distant thuugh.t against 
«« it." 

Cler. You own siie has received your gallantries at 

ylt. Faith, not to be vain, she has indeed taken 
Same pains to pique her cousin about me; and if her 
beautiful cousin had not fallen in my way jit the same 
time, I must own, 'tis very possible I might have en- 
deavoured to push my fortune with her; but since I 
how know your heart, put my friendship to a trial. 

CUr. Only this— If I Should be reduced to ask it cf 
you, promise to confess your imposture, and your 
passion to her cousin, before her face. 

At. There's my hand,— I'll do't, to right my friend 
and mistress. But, dear Clerimont, youMl -pardon 
me if 1 leave you here; for ray poor incognita's af- 
fairs at this time are in a very critical condition. , 

Cler. No ceremony — I release you. 

At. Adieu. [Excnnt: 



Enter Clerimont and Careless. 

And so you took the opportunity of her fainting to 
carry her otf t Pray, how long did her fit last ? 

Care. Why, faith, I so humoured her afFedbition, 
that 'tis hardly over yet ; fur 1 told her, her life was 
in danger, and swore, if slie would not let me send 
for a parson to marry lier before she died, I'd that 
minute send for a shroud, and be buried alive witU 
her in tiie same coffin : but at the apprehension of so 
terrible a thougl t, she pretended to be frightened into 
her right senses agiin ; and forbid me her sight for 

ever. So that, in sliort, my impudence is almost 

exhausted, her afFeilation is as unsurmountabie as an- 
other's real virtue, and 1 mu?t e'en catch her that 
way, or die without her at last. 

Cltr. How do you mean ? 

Care. Wliy, if I find I cann't impose upon herby 
humility; whicli I'll try, I'll even turn rival to my- 
self in a very fantastical figure, that I'm siu-e she 
won't be able to resist. You must know, she has of 
late been flattered that the Muscovite Prince Alex- 
ander is dying for her, though he never spoke to her 
in life, 

Ckr. 1 understand you : so you'd first venture to 


pique her against yoii, and then let her marry you in 
another person, to be revenii^ed of you. " " 

Care. One of the t^vo ways I am pretty'sure to suc- 

Cler. Extravacrant enough! . Fr'ythee, is Sir Solo- 
ition in the next room > 

Care. What, you want his assistance ? Claiinda'sin 
her airs a.ain ! 

CUr. Fa^rh. Careless, I am almost ashamed to tfcll 
you, but \ must needs speak with him. 

Care. Come along then. \_Excunt, 

Enter Lady Dainty, Lady Sad life, and Careless. 

L. Dain. This rude, boisterous man, has given xxxz 
a thousand disorders; the colic, the spleen, the pal- 
pitation of the heart, and convulsions all over — Huh I 
huh ! — I must send for the doctor. 

Z. Sad. Come, come, madam, e'en prjrdon liim, 
and let him be your physician — do but observe his 
penitence, so humble he dares not speak to }ou. 

Care. [Foids his arms and sighs.'] Oh! 

L. Sad. How can you hear hiju sigh sO ? 

L, Dain. Nay» let liim groan — for notliing but his 
pangs can ease me. 

Care. [^Kneels and presents her his drawn sword ; open- 
ing his breast.l Be then at once most barbarously just, 
and take your vengeance here. 

L. Dain, No, I give thee life to make thee mise- 
rable ; hve, that my resenting eyes may kill thee 
every hour. 


Clare. Nay, then there's no relief but this—— 

\OJftring at his iword, Lady Sadlife holds him, 

L. Sad. Ah \ tor mercy's sake Barbarous crea- 
ture, how can you see lum thus ? 

L. Dain. Why, I did not bid him kiil himself: but 
do you really think he would have done it i 
• L. Sad. Certainly, if i had not prevented it, 

L. Dain. Strange passion ! But 'tis its nature to be 
violeiu, when one makes it despair. 

L. Sad. Won't you speak 10 him ? 

L. Dain. No, but if your is enougli concerned 

to be h.s friend, you may tell him — not that it reaiiy 
is so — but you may say — you believe i pity him. 

L. Sad. Sure love was never more ridiculous on 
boLli sides. 

Ejiter WlSHVv'ELL. 

JVis/i. Madam, heie's a page from- Prince Alex- 
ander desires to give a leiter into your iadysiup's own 

L. Dai:i. Prince Alexander I what means my heart ? 
I come to him. 

L. Sad. By no means, madam, pray let him come in. 

Care. Ha ! Pnnce Alexander I nay, then I have 
fouiid out the secret of this coldness, madam. 

Enter Page. 
pGg€. Madam, his Royal Highness Prince Alex- 
ander, my master, has commanded me, on pain of 
death, thus \_Kneeling.^ to deliver this, the burning 
secret of his heart. 


L. Dain. Where is the Prince ? 
- Page. Reposed in private on a mourning pallat, 
'till your commands vouchsafe to raise him. 

L. Sad. By all means, receive him here immediate- 
ly.- 1 have the honour to be a little known to his 

L. Dain. The favour, madam, is too great to be 
resisted : pray tell his highness then, the honour of 
the visit he designs me, makes me thankful and im- 
patient I huh! huh I [Exit Page, 

Care. Are my sufferings, madam, so soon forgot 
then ! Was I but flattered with the hope of pity ? - 

L. Dain. The happy have whole days, and those 
they choose. [Resenting.'] The unhappy have but 
hours, and those they lose. [Exit repeating. 

L. Sad. Don't you lose a minute then. 

Care. I'll warrant you — ten thousand thanks, dear 

madam, I'll be transformed in a second^ 

[Exeunt severally. 

Enter C LA RIND A 272 <2 Man"* s habit. 
Clar. So ! I'm in for*t now I how I shall come off 
I cann't tell: 'twas but a bare saving game 1 made 
with Clerimont ; his resentment had brought my 
pride to its last legs, dissembling; and if the poor 
man had not loved me too well, I had made but a 
dismal humble figure — I have used him ill, that's cer- 
tain, and he may e'en thank himself for't— he would 
be sincere — Well, (begging my sex's pardon) we do 
make the silliest tyrants— -we liad better be reasonr ■ 


able; for (to do them right) we don't run half t}ie 
h zard in obeying the good sense of a lover j at; 

least, I'm reduced now to make the experiment 

Here they come. 

Enter Sir Solomon and Clerimont. 

Sir Sol. What have we here 1 another captain ? If 
I were sure he were a coward now, I'd kick, him be- 
fore he speaks Is your business with me, sir? 

Clar. If your name be Sir Solomon Sadlife. 

Sir Sol. Yes, sir, it is; and I'll maintain it as an- 
cient as any, and related to most of the families in 

Clar. My business will convince you, sir, that I 
think well of it. 

Sir Sol. And what is your business, sir? 

Clar. Wliy, sir You have a pretty kinswoman, 

called Clarinda. 

Ckr. Hal 

Sir Sol. And what then, sir ?■ Such a regue as 

t'other. {Aside, 

Clar. Now, sir, I have seen her, and am in love 
Kith her. 

Cler. Say you so, sir i — I may chance to cure you 
of it. \^Asid€, 

Clar. And to back my pretensions, sir, I have a 
good fifteen himdred pounds a year estate, and am, as 
you &ee, a pretty fellow into the bargain. 

SirSel. She that ma.rries you, sir, will have a choice 
bargain indeed, 



Clar. In short, sir, I'll g-ive you a thousand guineas 
to make eip the match. 

Sir SsJ. Hum — [_Aside.^^ — But, sir, my niece is pro- 
vided for. 

Cler. That's well ! [Jside, 

Sir Sol. But if she were not, sir, I must tell you, 
frlie is not to be caught with a smock-face and a fea- 
ther, sir And and let me see you an hour 

hence. [yJside. 

Clar. Well said, uncle ! [Aside,'] But, sir, I'm 

h\ love with her, and positively will have her. 

Sir Scl. Whether she likes you or no, sir ? 

Clar. Like me! ha, ha! I'd fain see a woman that 
dislikes a pretty fellow, with fifteen lumdred pounds 
a year, a white wig, and black e^e-brows. 

Cler. Hark, you, young gentleman, there must go 
Hiore than all this to the gaining of that Jadv. 

[Takes Clar.nda aside. 

Sir Sol. [Aside,'] A thousand guineas— that's five 
hundred more than I proposed to get of Mr. Cleri- 

mont But my honour is engaged Ay, but then 

here's a thousand pounds to release it — Now, shall I 
take the money ? — It must be so— Coin will carry it. 

Clar. Oh, sir, if that be all, I'll soon remove your 
doubts and pretensions! Come, sir, I'll try your 

Cler. I'm afraid you won't, young gentleman. 

Clar. As young as I am, sir, you shall find I scora 
to turn my back to any man 

[Exeunt Clarinda and Clerimont. 


Sir Sol. Ha ! they are gone to fight- with all my 

heart — a fair chance, at least, for a better bargain : 
for if the young spark should let the air into my 
friend Clenmont's midriff now, it may }^ssibly cool 
!iis love too, and then there's iny honour safe, and 
a thousand guineas snug. [Exit^ 

«< Enter Ladj Dainty, Lady Sadlife, and Care- 
'' LEJ^s as Prince Alexander. 

*' L. Dain. Your highness, sir, has done me ho* 
** nour in tii.s visit. 

^^ Care. Madam-— — — > [SaluUs her, 

*< L. Dain. A caprioling person! 

*' Care, May tiie davs be from my life, and 
• *' added to yourSj most inconiparable bf-auty, whiter 
** than the snow that lies throughout the ye<ir un- 
*' melted en our, Russian mountairiS ! 

*' L. Dain. How manly liis expressions are i — We 
** are extremely obiiged to liie Czar, tor not taking 
*' your highness t^ome v\ith him. 

** Cure. He left me, rnadam, to learn to be a ship 
** carpenier. 

♦' L. Sad. A very polite accomplishment I 

** L Dain. And in a prince entirely new. 

** Care. All his nobles, madam, are masters of some 
** useful science; ana most of our arms are quartered 
" with n.echanical u^struments, as hatchets, hammers, 
** pick-axes, and liand-saws. 

" L. Dain. I admire the manly manners of your 
'* court. 


** L. Sad. Oh, so infinitely beyond the soft idleness 
*' of ours ! 

** Care. 'Tis the fashion, ladies, for the e-istern 
•' princes ro profess some trade or other. The lat-t 
** Grand Signior was a locksnaith. 

** L, Dain. How new liis conversation is 1 

*' Care. Too rude, I fear, madam, for so tender a 
** composition as yoiir divine ladysliip's. 

" L. Dain. Courtly to a softness too ! 

** Care. Were it possible, madam, that so much 
** delicacy could endure the martial roughness of our 
** manners and our country, I cannot boast; but if a 
** province at your feet could make you mine, that 
■" province and its master should be yours. 

" L. Dain. Ay, here's grandeur with address !— — 
" An odious native lover, now, would have com- 
" plained ©f the taxes, perhaps, and have haggled with 
*' one for a scanty jointure out of his horrid lead 
*' mines, in some uninhabitable mountains, about 
** an hundred and four-score miles from unheard-of 
** London. 

*' Care. I am informed, madam, there is a certain 
" poor, distracted English fellow, that refused to quit 
*' his saucy pretensions to your all-conquering beautyt 
*' though he had heard I liad myself resolved to adore 
*' you. Careless, I think they call him. 

*' L Dain- Your highness wrongs your merit, to 
** give yourself the least concern for one so much be.. 
*• low your fear. 

*' Care. When I first heard cf him, I on the instant 


«< ordered one of my retinue to strike offhls head with 
«* a scimitar; but they told me the free laws of Eng^ 
* land allowed of no such power: so that, thoui^h I 
*' am a prince ot the blood, madam, I am obliged 
«' only to murder hiai privately. 

« L. Dain. 'Tis indeed a reproach to the ill-breed- 
« in<: of our constitution, not to admit your power 
<« wiUi your person. But if the pain of my entire 
^' neglect can end him, pray, be easy. 
■ «« Care. Madam, I'm not revengeful ; make him 
«« but miserable, I'm satisfied. 

<« L. Dain. Vou may depend upon it. 

«' Care. I'm in strange favour with her. [Aside.—- 
«' Please you, ladies, to make your fragriuu fingers 
<* familiar with this box. 

«* L. Dain. Sweet or plain, sir? 

*' Care. Right Mosco, madam, made of the sculls 
<* of corquered enemies. 

" L. Sad. Gunpowder, as T live } [Exeunt.'^ 


Changes to a Field. EncerCLAKiUDA a«^CL£RiM®NT. 

Ckr. Come, sir, we are far enough. 

Oar. I only wish the lady were by, sir, that tl.s 

conqueror might carry her off the spot 1 warrant 

she'd be mine. 

Ckr. That, my talking hero, we shall soon deter- 

I Hj 


Clar. Not that I think her liandsome, or care a 
rush for her. 

Cler. You are very mettled, sir, to fight for a wo- 
man you don't value. 

Clar. Sir, T vahie the reputation of a gentleman; 
and I don't think any young fellow onglu to pretend 
to it, till he iias talked himself into a lampoon, lost 
his two or three thousand pounds, at play, kept Iiis 
miss, and killed Uis man. 

Cler. Very gallant, indeed, sir! but if you please 
to handle your sword, you'H soon go through your 

Ctar. Come on, sir 1 believe I shall give your 

mistress a truer account of your heart than you have 
done. I have had her heart long enough, and now 
will have yours. 

Cler. irla ! does she love you, then ? 

\_Endeavouring to draw, 

Clar. I leave you to judge that, sir. But I have 
Ian. vNirh her a thousand times; in short, so long, till 
I'm lired ot it. 

CUr. Villain, thou liest I Draw, or I'll use you as 
you deserve, and stab you. 

Clar. Take this with you first, Clarinda will never 
marry him that murders me. 

Cler. She may the man that vindicates her honour 

■ therefore be quick, or I'll keep my word 1 

find your sword is not for doing things in haste. 

Clar. It stick* to the scabbard so; I believe I did 


not wipe off the blood of the last man I fought 

Cler. Come, sir, this trifling sha'n't serve your turn 
— Here, give me yours, and take mine. 

Qiar. Witli ail nty heart, sir.-^ Now have at you, 

[Cler. drazos^ andjinds only a hilt in his hand, 

Ckr. Death! you villain, do you serve me sol 

Clar. In love and war, sir, all advantages are fair : 
so 'AC conquer, no matter whether by force or strata- 
gem. Cume, quick, sir — your life or mistress. 

Clsr. Neither. Death ! you shall have both or 
j)one 1 Here drive your sword ; for only through this 
liCart you reacli Clarinda. 

Clar. Death, sir, can you be mad enough to die 
for a woman that hates you ? 

Cler. If that were true, 'twere greater madness, 
then, to live. 

Clar. Why, to my knowledge, sir, she has used you 
basely, falsly, ill, and for no reason. 

Cler. No matter; no usage can be worse than the 
contempt of poorly, tamely' parting with her. She 
may abuse her he.irt by happy infidehties; but 'tis the 
pride ot mine to be evei- miserably constant. 

Clar. Generous passion 1 You almost tempt me to 
resign her to you. 

Cler. You cannot if you would. I w^ould indeed 
have won her fairly from you with my sword ; but 
scorn to rake her as your gift. Be quick and end 
your insolence. 

Clar» Yes, tlius Most generous Clerimont, you 


now, indeed, have fairly vanquished me ! [Rum to him.'\ 
My woman's follies and my shame be buried ever 

CUr. Ha, Clarimia! Is it possible? My wonder 
rises with my joyl-^How came you in this habit ? 

Clar. Now you indeed recall my blushes; but I had 
no other veil to hide them, while I confessM the in^ , 
juries I had done your heart, in fooling with a man 
i never meant on any terms to engage with. Beside, 
I knew, from our late partin^r, your fear of losing me 
would reduce you to comply with Sir Solomon's de- 
mands, for his interest in year favour. Therefore, 
as you saw, I M'as resolved to ruin his market, by 
seeming to raise it; for he secretly took the offer I 
made him. 

CUr. 'Twas generously and timely offered ; for it 
really prevented my signing articles to him. But if 
you would heartily convince me that 1 shall never 
more have need of his interes!", e'en let us steal to the 
next priest, and honestly put it out of his power ever 
to part us. 

Ccar. Why, truly, considering the trusts I have 
made you, 'twould be ridiculous now, I think, to 
deny you any thing : and if you should grow weary 
of me afier such usage, I cann't blame you. 

Cler. Banish that fear ; myjlame can never wdstcy 

For love sincere refnes upon the taste. [Exeunt, 


Enter Sir Solomon, wit A old Mr, Wilful; Lady 
Sad LIFE, ana' Sylvia weeping. 

Sir SaL Troth, my old friend, this is a bad business 
indeed ; you liave bound yourself in a thousand 
pounds bond, you say, to marry your daughter to a 
tine gentleman, and she in the mean time, it btems, 
is fallen in love with a stranger. 

IVil/. Look you, Sir Solomon, it does not trouble 
me o* this; for I'll make ; er do as I please, or I'll 
starve her. 

X, Sad. But, sir, your daughter tells me that the 
gentleman she loves is in every deg.ce in as good 
circuir.stances as the person yr,u ce>ign her for; and 
if he does not prove himself ^o before to-morrow 
raorning, she will cheerfully sabmil to whatever you'll 
impose on her. 

IViIf. All sham ! all sliam I only to gain time. I 
€xpeil my friend and his son here immediately, to 
demand performance of articles; and if her ladyship'3 
nice stomach dees not immediately comply with them, 
as I told you before, Til starve her^ 

L, Sad. But, consider, sir, what a perpetual discord 
must a forced marriage probably produce. 

Ifii/. Discord ! pshaw, waw ! One man makes as 
good a husband as another. A month's maniage 
vill set all to rights, I warrant you. You know the 
old saying, Sir Solomon, lyir.g together makes pigs 

I. Sad. [ToSy].] What shall we do for you? There's 


no altering him. Did not your lover promise to com^ 
to your assistance ? 

5r/. I expedt him every minute; but cann't foresee 

from him the least hope of my redemption. This 

is he. 

inter Atall undisguisetL 

At. My Sylvia, dry those tender eyes ; for while 
there's life there's hope. 

L. Sad. Ha ! is't he ? but I must smother my con- 
fusion. [Aside, 

tVilf. How now, sir! pray, who gave you commis- 
sion to be so familiar with my daughter ? 

At. Your pardon, sir; but when you know me 
right, you'll neither think my freedom or my preten- 
sions familiar or dishonourable. 

J'Vilf. Why, sir, what pretensions have you to her? 

At, Sir, I saved her life at the hazard of my own: 
that gave me a pretence to know her j knowing her 
made me love, and gratitude made her receive it. 

Wilf. Ay, sir I And some very good reasons, best 
known to myself, make me refuse it. Now, what 
will you do? 

At. I cann't tell yet, sir; but if you'll do me the 
favour to let me know those reasons — — 

Wilf. Sir, I don't tliink myself obliged to do 
either; — but I'll tell you what Til do for you: since 
you say you love my daughter, and she loves you, I'll- 
put you in the nearest way to get her. 

At. Don't flatter me, I beg you, sir. 


Wtlf. Not I, upun my soul, sir; for, look you, 

'tis only this get my consent, and you shall liave 


Jt. I beg your pardon, sir, for endeavouring to 
talk reason to you. But, to return your raillery, 
give me leave to tell you, when any man marries her 
but myself, he must extremely ask my consent. 

Wi/f. Before George, thou art a very pretty impu- 
dent fellow; and Tm sorry I cann't punish her dis- 
obedience, by throwing her away upon thee. 

//^ You'll have a great deal of plague about this 
business, sir; for I shall be mighty difficult to give 
up my pretensions to her. 

Wt//. Ha 1 'tis a thousand pities I cann't comply 
with thee. Thou wilt certainly be a thriving fellow ; 
for thou dost really set the best face upon a bad cause, 
that ever 1 saw smce I v^ as born. 

At. Come, sir, once more, raillery apart ; suppose 
I prove myself of equal birth and fortune to deserve 

tVi/f Sir, if you were eldest son to the Cham of 
Tartary, and had the dominions of the Great Mogul 
entailed upon you and your heirs for ever, it would 
signify no more than the bite of my thumb. The 
girl's disposed of; i have matched her already, upon ' 
^ a: thousand pounds forfeit ; and faith she shall fairly 
run for't, though she's yerk'd and flead from the 
crest to the crupper. 

yit. Confusion I 
. Syl. What will become of me ? 


WUf, And if you don't think me in earnest now, 
here comes one that will convince you of my sincerity. 
At. My father ! Nay, then my ruin is inevitable, 

^^zz-cr 5/r Harry Atall. 

Zir Har, [To At.] Oil, sweet sir 1 have I found you 
at last ? Your very humble servant. What's the rea- 
son pray, that you have had the assurance to be al- 
most a fortnight in town, and never come near me, 
especially when I sent you word I had business of 
such consequence with you. 

At. I understood your business was to marry me, sir, 
a woman I never saw: and to confess the truth, I 
durst not ccm'^ near you, because I was at the same 
time in love wiih one you never saw. 

SirHar. Vv'as you so, sir? Why, then, sir, I'll find 

a speedy cuie for your passion Brother Wilful — 

Hey, fiddles «he'e! 

Atr Sir, you may treat me with what severity you 
please; bu^ my engagements to that lady are too 
powerful and fixed to let the utmost misery dissolve 

Sir Har. What does the fool mean ? 

At. That I can sooner die than part with her. 

WUf. Hey I — ^Why, is this your son, Sir Harry ? 

SirHar, Hey. day !— Why, did not you know that 
before ? 

At. Oh, earth, and all you stars I is this the lady 
you designed me, sir ? 

Syl, Oh, fortune ! is it possible ? 


Sir Har. And is this the lady, sir, you have beeii 
making such a bustle about ? 

At. Not life, health, or happiness are half so dear 
to me. 

Sir Sol. [Joining At. and Sylvia'i hands ] Loll, loll, 

At. Oh, transporting joy 1 [Embracing SyW\a, 

Sir Har. arid Wilf. Loll ! loll!- [Joining in the tune, 
end dancing about t/iem.'j 

Sir Sol. Hey! within there I [Calls the Jiddles.'\ By 
jingo, we'll make a night on't! 

Enter Clarinda and Clerimont. 

Clar. Save you, save you,, good people — I'm glad, 
uncle, to hear you call so cheerfully for the fiddles ; 
it looks as if you had a husband ready for me. 

Sir Sol, Why, that I may have by to-morrow night, 
madam J but, in the mean time, if you please, yoi* 
may wish your friends joy. 

Clar. Dear Sylvia I 

Syl. Clarinda I 

At. Oh, Clerimont, such a deliverance I 

Cler. Give you joy, joy, sir. 

Clar, I congratulate yovir happiness, and am pleased 
our little jealousies are over; Mr. Clerimont has told 
me all, and cured me of curiosity for ever, 

Syl. What, married ? 

Clar. You'll see presently. But, Sir Solomon, 
wkat do you mean by to-morrow t Why, do yew 


fancy I have any more patience than the rest of my 
neighboLjrs ? 

Sir Sol. Why, truly, madam, I don't suppose yoa 
have; but I believe to-morrow will be as soon as 
their business can be done; by which tinie I expefl 
a jolly fox-hunter from Yorkshire: and if you are 
resolved not to have patience till next day, wliy, the 
same parson may toss you up all four in a dish to- 

C/ar, i\ filthy fox -hunter I 

Sir SoL Od'zooks, a niettied fellow, that will ride 
^"Du from day -break to sun-set I None of your flimsy 
London rascals, that must have a chair to carry them 
to their coach, and a coach to carry them to a trapes, 
and a constable to carry both to the round-house. 

Clar. Ay, but this fox-hunter. Sir Solomon, will 
come home dirty and tired as one of his hounds j 
he'll be always asleep before he's a- bed, and on 
horseback before he's awake ; he must rise early to 
follow his sport, and I sit up late at cards for want of 
better diversion. Put this together, my wise uncle. 

Sir SvL Are you so high fed, madam, that a country 
gentleman of fifteen hundred pounds a-year won*t go 
down with you ? 

Clar. Not so, sir; but you really kept me so sharp, 
that I was e'en forced to provide for myself; and 
here stands the fox-hunter for my money. 

[Claps Cler. on the shoulder. 

Sir SoL How ! 

Cier, Eren so, Sir Solomon — Hark in you car, sir 


— You really lield your consent at so Iiigh s price, 
tliat, to give you a proof of my good husbandry, I 
was resolved to save charges, and e'en marry her 
without it. 

Sir Sol. Hell ami 

Clar. And hark you in t'other ear, sir-^ Because 

1 would not have you expose your reverend age by a 
mistake, know, sir, I was the young spark witii a 
smooth face and a feather, that offered you a thousand 
guineas for your consent, which you would have been 
glad to hav^e taken. 

Sir Sol. The devil !-^ If ever I traffic in women's 

flesli again, may all the bank stocks fall when I have 

bought them\ and rise when I have sold them. 

Hey-day ! what have we here ? more cheats? 

C/«-.- Not unlikely, sir; for I fancy they are 

Enter Lady Dainty asi Careless. 

L. Sad. That they are, I can assure you 1 give 

your highness joy, madam. 

L. Dain. Lard, that people of any rank should use 
such vulgar salutations! though, methinks, highness 
has something erf grandeur in the sound. But I was 
in hopes, good people, that confident fellow, Careless, 
had been among you. 

Care. What say you, madam, (to divert the good 
company) shall we send for him by way of mortifi- 
cation } 



L. Dain. By all means ; for your sake, methinks, 
I ooghr to give him full despair. 

Care, Why, then, te let you see, that 'tis a much 
easier thing to cure a fine lady of her sickly taste, tlian 
a lover of his impudence — there's Careless for you, 
witliout the least tincture of despair about him. 

[^Discovers himself, 

AIL Ha, Careless ! 

L. Dain. Abused ! undone ! 

AIL Ha, ha I 

Ckr. Nay now, madam, we wish you a superior 
Joy ; for you have married a man instead of a 

Care. Come, come, madam ; since you find you 
were in the pov\ er of such a cheat, you may be glad 
it was no greater: you might have fallen into a ras- 
cal's hands ; but you know lama gentleman, my 
fortune no small one, and, if your temper will give 
nie leave, will deserve you. 

L. Sad. Come, e'en make the best of your fortune; 
for, take my word, if the cheat had not been a very 
agreeable one, T would never have had a hand in't. 
— You must pardon me, if I cann't help laughing. 

L. Dain. Well, since it must be so, I pardon all; 
only otje thing let me beg of you, sir ; that is, your 
promise to wear this habit one month for my satis- 

Care. Oh, madam, that's a trifle! Pll lie in the 
snn a whole summer for an olive complexion, K> 
oblige you. 


L. Dain, Well, Mr. Careless, I begin now to think 
better of my fortune, .and look back with apprehen- 
sion of the escape I have had ; you have already 
cured my folly, and were but my health recoverai^le, 
I sliouid think myself completely happy. 

Care. For that, madam, we'll venture to save you 
doclor's fees ; 

And trvst to nature : time vnll soon discover. 
Tour best physician is a favour' d lover, 

[Exeunt omnes. 


yy ELLy sirs, I know not how the play Ynay pass^ 

But, in my Aumbie sense — our Sard's an ass ; 

For had he ever known the least of nature y 

H' had found his double spark a dismal creature i 

"To please izt)o ladies he two forms puts oriy 

As if the thing in shadows could be do%e ; 

The women really two, and he, poor soul! but one^ 

Had he rivers' d the hint, h' had done the feat ^ 

Had made tk' impostor credibly complete ; 

j^ single mistress might have Uood the cheat. 

She might to several 'lovers have been kindy 

Nor strain" d your faith t to think both pleas' d and blinds 

Plain sense had knowUy the fair can love receive^ 

With half the pains your warmest vows can give, 

JBuly hold ! — Pyn thinking ' mistake the matter - - 
Vn second thoughts — The hint's but honest satire^ 
And only meant f expose their modish sensCy 
Who think the f re of love's but impudence. 
Our spark was really modest -y when he found 
*Txo^ female claims at onccy he one disown" d ; 
Wisely presumingy though in ne'er such haste^ 
One would be found enough for him at last^ 


So thaty to svm the zohoU^ 1 think the play 

Deserves the usual favours, on his day ; 

If not,, he swears he'll write the next to musiCy 

In doggrel rhimes would make or him or you sick. 

His groveling sense Italian airs shall crozon^ 

And then he's sure ev'n nonsense will go down. 

But if you'd have the world suppose the stags 

Not quite forsaken in this airy age^ 

Let your glad votes our needless fears covfoundf 

And speak in claps as loud for sense as sound. 















By Permission of the Managers, 

rhc Lines distinguished by inverted Commas, are omitted in the Representation. 


Printed for tht Proprietors, under the Direaion of 

John Bell, 15ritije(!j Xibrarg, Strand, 

JJookseller to His Royal Highness the Prince of Walis, 




7hE reputation that this plaj received on the stage, 
some few errors excepted, was more than I could 
well hope from so censorious an age ; from whom 
I ask but so much necessary praise as will serve once 
or twice a-jear at most^ to gain their good companj, 
and just keep me alive. 

There is not now that mankind that was than, 
When as the sun and man did seem to strive 
(Joint tenants of the world) who should survive 5 
V/hen if a slow-pac'd star had stol'n away 
From the observer's marking he might stay- 
Two or three hundred years to see't again, 
And then make up his obser\'ation plain. 

Dr. DoNNr, 

Tor it is impossible, in our limited time, (as I bring 
Ms opinion Lo back my own, who is without compa- 
rison, the best writer of the age,) to present our 
judges a poem half so perfect as we could make it. 
J must acknowledge, madam, with all humility, 1 
ought to have taken more time and more pains iit this 
tragedy^ because it is dedicated to your Grace, who 
heing the best judge, (and therefgre can when yott 


please mahe us tremble) jet with exceeding mercy 
have pardoned the defects of Theodosiiis, and given 
it your entire approbation. My genius', madam, 
%vas your favourite when, the poet was unknown, and 
openly received your smiles, before I had the honour 
to pay your Grace the most submissive gratitude for 
so illustrious and advantageous a protection. To let 
the world too know, that you do not think it beneath 
you to be officioiisly good, even from the extremest 
heights to discern the lowest creatures, and give them 
all the noblest influence you can, you brought her 
Royal Highness just at the exigent time, whose single 
presence on the Poet's day is a subsistence for him all 
the year after. Ah,madaml if all the short-lived hap- 
piness that miserable poets can enjoy consists in coin- 
mendation only ; nay, if the most part are content with 
popular breath, and even for that are thankful, how 
shall I express myself to your Grace, who by a par- 
ticular goodness and Innate sweetness, merely for 
the sake of doing well, have thus raised me aboOe 
m-Y^elf? To have your Grace's Javour is, in a word, 
to have the applause of the whole court, who are its 
noblest ornament, magnificent and eternal praise. 
Something there is in your mien, so much above that 
we vulgarly call charming, that to me it seems ado- 
rable, and your presence almost divine, whose daz- 
:^!ing and majestic form is a proper mansion for the 
viost elevated soul, /ind let me tell the world— nay, 
iil^hing speak it to a barbarous a-e, (I cannot help 


calling it so when I tliink of R.ome or Greece) your 
extraordinary love for heroic poetry is not the least 
argument to shew ihc greatness of your mind and 

fulness of perfection. To hear you speak with that 
infinite sweetness and^ chearfihiess of spirit that is 
natural to your Grace is, methinks, to hear our tu." 
lelar angels ; it is to bemoan the present malicious 
times, and remember the golden age ; but to behold 

you too is to make prophets quite forget tJieir heaven 
^nd bind the poets with eternal rapture, 

——Her pure and eloquent blood 
Spoke in her cheeks, and so distindly wrought 
That one might almost say her body thought. 
You, for whose body God made better clay. 
Or took souls' stuff, such as shall late decay. 
Or such as need small change at the last day. 

Dr. Donne. 
Zlphares and Semandra were first your Grace's fa- 
vourites ; and though I ought jiot, madam, to praise 
your wit by your judgment of my painting, yet I 
miLSt say such characters every dauber cannot draw. 
It has been observed against me, lliat I abound ia 
ungovern ed fancy ; but I hope the world will pardon 
die sallies of youth : age, despondence, and dul- 
ness, come too fast of ihemsehes. I discomynendno 
man for keeping the beaten rdad ; but I am sure the 
noble hunters that follow the game, must leap hedge-: 
and ditches sometimes, and run at all, or never coma 
into the fall of the quarry. My comfort is, I cannot 


be so ridiculous a creature to any man as I am to 
myself; for who should know the house so well as 
the good man at home, who when his neighbours 
come to see him still sets the best rooms to 'view, and 
ijhe is 7iot a wild ass keeps the rubbish and lumber in 
some dark hole whither nobody comes but himself to 
mortify at melancholy hours I But how then, madam, ^ 
in this unsuitable condition, how shall I answer the 
infnite honours and obligations your Grace has laid 
upon, me, your Grace, who is the most beautiful idea, 
of love and glory, who to that divine composition 
have the noblest and best natnred wit in the world, 
yill 1 can promise, madam, and am able to perform 
is, that your Grace shall never see a play of mine 
that shall give offence to modesty and virtue ; and 
what I humbly offer to the world shall be of use at 
least, and I hope deserve imitation; which is or 
ought to be, I 'am sure, the design of all tragedies 
end comedies both ancient and modem. J should pre" 
sume to promise myself too some success in things of 
this nature, if your Grace (in fvhom the charms of 
beauty, wit, and goodness, seem reconciled) at a leisure 
hour xvould condescend to correct with your excelleiiji 
ludgnient the errors of. 

your Graced most humble^ 
most obedient, 

and devoted servant, 
Nat. Lee. 




This Tragedy, like the far greater number of our 
plays, is founded upon the passion of love ; and dis- 
plays to us the efFe6ls of its subtle influence, ever, 
upon the hearts of those, whom the lust of power 
might naturally be expeaed to withdraw from every 
finer sensation than that of ambition. 

Some exception may be taken to a sort of under- 
plot in this piece, as it is mean and feeble ; yet I 
know not whether the loves of Varanes and of Theo- 
dosius are not set off by the passion of Mariana — th^ 
contrast is certainly forcible, and nothing therefore 
lies agdnst it but that it contains a mionotony of inci- 
dent, though not of manners. 

Marcian indeed always sullies the Splendor of the 
scene — his images are frequently impure, and his ex- 
pression generally coarse — He once exclaims— 

I see each starving soldier bound from earth, 
As if some god by miracle had rais'd him, 
And, with beholding you, groiufat again. 

This play is marked strongly by that bold, but irre- 
gular flight of imagination which strained the chords 


of sanity until they cracked— Yet it obviously wears 
the stamp of poetic power impressed by the fine fer- 
vour of a kixuriant fancy. 

We are sorry to observe the necessity of geuius ad- 
dressing a Dutchess of Richmond in the following 
among other sentences of absurdity : 

«' To have your Grace's favour Is magnificent and eter- 
*« nal praise— Something there is in your mien so much 
<* above that we vulgarly call charming'^ that to me it seems 
<' adorable, and your presence almost divine^ whose 
« dazzling and majestic form is a proper mansion for the 
'* most elevated soul." 

One is at a loss to decide which deserves most of our 
contempt or pity— the giver or receiver of such ful- 
some flattery. We are now fortunately estranged 
from such prostitution of lani;uage. 


ff IT long oppressed and JiWd at last with rage^ 
Thus in a sullen mood rebukes the age: 
What loads of fame do modern heroes bear 
For an inglorious y long^ and lazy zvar^ 
Who for some skirmish or a safe retreat 
(Not to be dragged to battle) are caWd great / 
But oh ! what do ambitious statesmen gain 
Who into private chests all nations drain ? 
What sums of gold they hoard is daily known 
To all mens* cost, and sometimes to their own. 
Tour lawyer too, that like an yes bawls. 
That drowns the market higglers in the stalls. 
That seem begot, conceived, and born^ in brawls. 
Yet thrives : he and his crowd get what they please ; 
Swarming all term-time thro* the Strand like beesg 
Tliey buzz at Westminster and lie for fees* 
The godly too their ways of getting have^ 
But none so much as your fanatick knave ; 
Wisely the wealthiest livings they refuse 
Who by the fattest bishoprics woula lose. 
Who ztfitk short hair, large ears, and small blue bandf 
True rogues ! their own not God*s ele£t command. 
Let pigs then be prophane, but broth's allow'' d ; 
Possets and Christian caudles may be gcod^ 
M€€t hdpi to reinforce a brother's broodi 


Therefore each female saint he doth advise 

With grcansy and hums, and hasj and goggling eycs^ 

To rub him down and make the spirit rise. 

While with his zeal transported^ from the ground, 

He mountSy and sanEiif^s the sisters round. 

On poets only no kind star e'er smiVd ; 

Curst fate has damji'd 'ein ev'iy mother''s child ; 

Therefore he warns his brothers of the stage 

To write no more for an ungrateful age. 

Think what penurious masters you have serv'd ^ 

Tasso ran mad, and noble Spenser starved: 

Turn then^ whoever thou arty that canst write weU^ 

Thy ink to gaily and in lampoons excel ; 

Forswear all honesty y traduce the greaty 

Grow impudent, and rail against the state ; 

Bursting with spleen abroad thy pasquils send^ 

And choose some libel spreader for thy friend; 

The wit and want of Tivicn point thy mindy 

And for thy satire subjed choose mankind. 

Dramatic Perjsonae* 



Theodosius, ------- Mr. Brereton. 

Varanes, -------- Mr. Barry. 

Marcian, - Mr. Alckin. 

I'ucius, Mr. Keen. 

ATTictJi-, Chief Priest, - - . - Mr. J. Aickin, 

Leontine, -_--.-- Mr. Hurst. 

Aranthek, ------- Mr. Davies. 

PutcHERiA, ------- Miss Sherry. 

Athenais, -...--- Mrs. Barry, 

Attendants, Chorus, 
Scene, Constantinople. 



A stately Temple^ which represents the Christian Religion as 
in it^sjirst Magnijicencet being but lately established at 
Rome and Constantinople ', the Side- scenes show the horrid 
Tortures with which the Roman Tyrants persecuted the 
Church J and the Jlat Scene^ which is the Limit of the 
Prospect J discovers an Altar richly adorned; before it 
CoxNSTANTiNE (supposed) kneels, with Commanders 
about himj gazing at a bloody Cross in the Air^ which 
being encompassed with many Angels offers itself to view 
with these Words distinElly writteny In hoc signo 
vinces. instruments are heard, and many Attend mis \ 
the Ministers at Divine Service walk busily up and down 
'/;■// Attic us, the Chief of all the Priests, and Suc- 
cessor of St. Chrysostom, in rich Robes comes for- 
ward with the Philosopher Leon TINE, the Waiters in 
Ranks bowing all the Way before him, 

A Chorus heard at a Distance, 
Prepare, prepare! the rites begins 
Let Ticnc unhallowed enter in j 


The temples with new glories shines ^ 
Adorn the altars^ wash the shrines^ 
And purge the place from sin • 

Attic, Oli Leontlne ! was ever morn like this 
Since the celestial incarnation dawn'd ? 
I think no day since that such glory gave 
To Christian altars as this morning brings^ 

Leon. Great successor of holy Chrysostom, 
** Who now triumphs above, a saint of honour, 
*' Next in degree to those bright sons of heaven 
** Whenever fell nor stain'd their orient beams," 
What shall I answer, how shall I approach you 
Since my conversion, which your breath inspir'd ? 

Attic. To see this day the emp'ror of the east 
Leaves all the pleasures that the earth can yield, 
" That Nature can bestow or art invent. 
'* In his life's spring and bloom of gawdy years, 
** Confin'd to narrow rooms and gloomy walks, 
** Fasting and exercises of devotion, 
*' Which from his bed at midnight must awake him,** 
To undergo the penance of a cloister, 
Methinks, oh Leontine 1 'tis something more 
Than yet philosophy could ever reach. 

Leon. True, Atticus ; you have amaz'd my reason. 

Attic. Yet more : to our religion's lasting honour 
Mariana and Flavilla, two young virgins 
Imperial born, cast in the fairest mould 
That e'er the hand of beauty form'd for woman, 
" The mirrors of our court, where chastity 

jifl L THEODOSIUS. 15 

<* And innocence might copy spotless lustre," 
To-day with Theodosiiis leave the world. 

Leon. Methinks at such a glorious resignation 
Th' angelic order should at once descend 
** In all the paint and drapery of heaven, 
** With charming voices and with lulling strings,'*^ 
To give full grace to such triumphant zeal. 

Jttic. No, Leontine ; I fear there is a fault. 
For when I last confess'd the emperor, 
*' Whether disgust and melancholy blood 
** From restless passions urg'd not this divorce V* 
He only answer'd me with sighs and blushes. 
*Tis sure his soul is of the tend'rest make. 
Therefore I'll tax him stri6tly : but, my friend. 
Why should I give his chara6lerto you, 
Who when his father sent him. into Persia 
Were by that mighty monarch then appointed 
To breed him with his son, the Prince Varanes? 

Leon. And what will raise your admiration is. 
That two such diff' rent tempers should agree. 
You know that Theodosius is composed 
Of all the softness that should make a woman: 
Judgment almost like fear foreruns hisadions. 
And he will poise an injury so long 
As if he had rather pardon than revenge it; 
But the young Persian prince, quite opposite. 
So fiery fierce that those who view him nearly 
May see his haughty soul still mounting in his face; 
Yet did I study these so dift''rent tempers 
'Till I at last had form'd a perfe<^ union. 


<< As if two souls did bur inforin one body; 
A friendship that may challenge all the world, 
And at the proof be matchless. 

Atik. 1 long to read 
This gallant prince, who, as you have inform'd me, 
Comes from his father's court to see our emperor. 

Leon. So he intended till he came to Athens, 
And at my homely board beheld my daughter, 
V/iien as fate order'd she, who never saw 
Tiie glories of a court, <' bred up to books 
<' In closets like a Sybil; she, I say, 
** (Long since from Persia brought by me to Athens)'* 
Unskiird in charms but those which nature gave her, 
\Voundedthis scornful prince : in short, he forc'd me 
To wait him thither, with deep protestations 
That moment that bereft him of the sight 
Of Athenais gave him certain death. 
But see, my daughter honour'd with his presence. 


£'?zi<?r Varanes ctz^ Athenais. 
I^ar. *Tis strange, oh, Athenais! wondrOusall, 
Wondrous the shrines, and wonderful the altars, • 
The martyrs — tho' but drawn in painted flames, 
Amaze me with the image of their sufferings ; 
Saints canoniz'd that dar'd with Roman tyrants; 
Hermits that liv'd in caves and fed with angels. 
By Orosmades it is wondrous all 1 
That bloody cross in yonder azure sky. 
Above tiie head of kneeling Constantine, 

ylU /. THEODOSIUS, 17- 

Inscrib'd about with golden chara6ters 

^mi skalt o'er come in this-, if it be true, 

1 say again, by heaven 't is wondrous strange; 

Athtn. Oh, prince! if thus imagination stirs you, 
A fancy ruis'd from figures in dead walls, 
How would the sacred breath of Atticus 
Inspire your breast, purge all your dross away, 
And drive this Athenais from your soul; 
*' To make a virgin roem whom yet tlie mould 
" Of your rude fancy cannot comprehend I" 

Var, What says my fair! drive Athenalsfrom me I 
*' Start me not into phrenzy, lest I rail 
*' At all religion and fall out with Heaven." 
And what is she, alasi that would supplant thee ? 
Were she tlie mistress of the world, as fair 
As winter stars or sum.mer setting suns, 
And thou set by in nature's plainest dress. 
With that chaste, modest look, when first I saw thee, 
The heuess cf a poor philosopher, \Rccordcrs ready 

I swear by all I wish, by all 1 love, - 
Glory and thee, I would not lose a thoiigiit 
Nor c.jst an eye that way, but nisli to thee, 
To thess lov'd arms, and lose m\ self tor ever, 

Athzvc. Forbear, my lord. 

Var. Oh! cruel Athenais I 
Why dost ihoii put me olf who pine to death, 
And thrust me from thee when I would approach thee! 
Can there be a\ight in this r Curse rhenthy birthrig};t, 
Tliv ^lorivus titles and i'j- suited greatness, 


Since Athenais scorns thee : take again 

Your ilUtim'd honours ; take *em, take 'em, gods. 

And change me to some humble villager. 

If so at last for toils at scorching noon, 

In mowing meadows, or in reaping fields, 

At night she will but crown me with a smile. 

Or reach the bounty of her hand to bless me. 

Athtn, When princes speak their subjects should be 
Yet with humility I would demand 
Wherein appears my scorn or my aversion? 
Have I not for your sake abandou'd home, 
Where I had vow'd to spend my calmer days? 
But you, perhaps, imagine it but little. 
For a poor maid to follow you abroad. 
Especially the daughter of old Leontinej 
Yet I must tell you, prince 

l^ar. I cannot bear 
Those frowns : I have offended ; but forgive me; 
For who, oh Athenais ! that is toss'd 
With such tempestuous tides of love as I 
Can steer a steady course \ Retire my fair. 

[^Recorder sJlourishM 
Hark 1 the solemnities are now beginning, 
And Theodosius comes. Hide, hide thy charms; 
If to his clouded eyes such day should break. 
The royal youth, who dotes to death for love, 
I fear would forfeit all his vows to Heaven, 
And fix upon the world, the world of beauty. 


JoUowedhy Pulcheria, all three dressed in white, 
Theo. Farewell, Pulcheria, and I pray no more. 
For all thy kind complaints are lost upon me. 
Have I not sworn the world and I must part ? 
Fate has proclaimed it; therefore weep no more: 
•' Wound not the tend'rest part of Theodosius, 
** My yielding soul, that would expire in calms; 
Wound me not with thy tears and I will tell thee. 
Yet ere I take my last farewell for ever, 
The cause of all my sufF'rings. Oh, my sister I 
A bleeding heart, the stings of pointed love. 
What constitution soft as mine can bear ? 

Pukk. My lord, my emperor, my dearest brother 
Why all this while did you conceal it from me ? 

IhcQ, Because I was ashaniM to own my weakness 
** 1 knew thy sharper wit and stricter wisdom 
♦* Would dart reproofs which I could not endure. ' 
Draw near, oh Atticus! and mark me well. 
For never yet did my complaining spirit 
Unlade this weighty secret on him. 
Nor groan a syllable of her oppression. 

Attic. Concealment was a fault ; but speak at large. 
Make bare the wound, and I will pourin balm, 

Tkto. *Tis folly alland fondness — Oh remembrancei 
Why dost thou open thus my wound again. 
And from my heart call down those warmer drops 
That make me die with shame ? Hear then, Pulcheria; 
Some few preceding days before I left 

20 THEODOSIUS. v^<2 /, 

The Persian court, hunting one morning early 
I lost myself and all tlie company. /j 

Still vvand'ring on as fortune should direfl me I 

I pasta rivulet, and lighted in 
The sweetest solitude T ever saw; 
WJien strait, as if enchantment had been there, 
Two charming voices drew me 'till I came 
Where divers arbours overlook'd the river. 
Upon the osier bank two women sat, 
Who when their song was ended talk'd to one 
Who bathing stood far in the chrystal stream : 
But oh! what thought can paint that fair perfection. 
Or give a glimpse of such a naked glory ? 
Not sea-born Venus in the courts beneath, 
When the green nymphs first kiss'd her cora! lips, 
AUpolish'd fair and wash'd with orient beauty. 
Could in my dazzling fancy match her brightness, 
Attic. Think where you are. 
Theo. Oh, sir I you must forgive me : 
The chaste enthusiastic form appears 
As when I saw her ; yet I swear, Pulcheria, 
Had cold Diana been a looker on 
She must have prais'd the virtues of the virgin. 
** The Satyrs could nOt grin," for she was veil'd; 
From her naked bosom 

Pown to her knees the nymph was vvrapp'd in lawn : 
But oh : for me, for me, that was too much ! 
*' Her legs, her arms, her hands, her neck, her breasts, 
** So nicely shap'd, so matchless in their lustre j'* 
Such all-perfedion, that I took such draughts 


Of killing love, and ever since have languish'd 
With ling'ring surfeits of her fatal beauty : 

•* Alas I too fatal surel" Oh, Atticusl 

Forgive me, for my story now is done. 
The nymph was dress'd, and with her two companions. 
Having descry'd me, shriek'd and fled away, 
leaving me motionless— 'till Leontine, 
Th* instructor of my youth, by chance came in. 
And vvak'd me from the wonder that entranc'd me. 
Attic. Behold, my lord, the man whom you have 
The harbinger of Prince Varanes here^ 

Enter Leontine. 

Tnetf. Oh, Leontine, ten thousand welcomes meet 
Thou foster father of my tender youth, 
" Who rearM the plant and prun'd it with such care, 
•* How shall I look upon thee, who am fall'n 
«' From all the principles of manlier reason, 
«« By thee infus'd, to more than woman's weakness." 
Now by the majesty divine that awes 
This sacred place I swear you must not kneel! 
And tell me, for I have a thousand things 
To ask thee; where, where is my godlike friend ? 
Is he arriv'd, and shall I see his face 
Before I'm cloister'd from the world forever ? 

Uon. He comes, my lord, with all th' expeding joy| 
Of a young promisM lover ; from his eyes 
Big hopes look forth, and boiling fancy forms 
C iij 


Nothing but Theodosius still before him : 
His thought, his evVy word, is Tiieodosius. 

Theo. Yet, Leontine, yet answer me once more; ,, 

Willi tremblings I demand thee. | 

Say hast thou seen, oh ! has that heavenly form 

Appear'd to thee again ? Behold, he's dumb ; 

Proceed then to the solemn last farewell; 
Never was man so willing and prepared. 

Enter Varanes, Aranthes, and Atiendanh. 

Var. Where is my friend ? oh, v/here is my belov'd. 
My Theodosius I point him out ye gods ! 
That I may press him dead betwixt my arms, 
Devour him thus with over-hasty joys 
That languish at his breast quite out of breath. 
And cannot utter more. 

Theo, Thou mightiest pleasure, 
And greatest blessing that kind Heaven could send 
To glad my parting soul, a thousand welcomes ! 
Oh ! when I look on thee new starts of giory 
Spring in my breast, and with a backward bound 
1 run the race of lusty youth again. 

Far, By heaven it joys me too when I remember 
Our thousand pastimes, when we borrowM names, 
Alcides I, and thou my dearest Theseus, 
When thro' the woods vve chas'd the foaming boar 
With hounds that openM like Thessalian bulls. 
Like tigers flu'd, and sanded as the shore, 
With ears and chests that dash'd the morning dew ; 
Driven with a spurt, as ships are tost in storni^, 

^Ql, THEODOSIU3. 2^ 

We ran like hinds, and matchless was our course I 
Now sweeping o'er the limit of a hill. 
Now with a full career came thund'ringdown 
The precipice and sweat along the vale. 

Theo. Oh, glorious time! and when the gath'ring 
Have call'd us home, say, did we rest my brother \ 
When on the stage to the admiring coutt 
We strove to represent Alcides' thry, 
In all that raging heat and pomp of madness 
With which tlie stately Seneca ridori\'d him, 
So lively drawn, and painted with such horror 
Tliat we were forc'd to give it o'er, so loud 
Tiie virgin's sb.riek'd, so fast they dy'd away. 

Var. My Theodosius still; 'tis ray lov'd brother t 
And by the gods we 'il see those times again! 
Why then has rumour wrong'd thee^ that leported 
Christian .enthusiasm had charm'a thee from us ; 
That drawn by priests, and wurk'd by melancholy, 
Thou h:.dst laid the golden reins of empire down 
And sworn your&elf a votary for ever ? 

T'-o. 'lis almost true; and had not you arriv'd 
The solemn business had by this been ended. 
This I have made the empress of tlieeast 
My elder sister : these with me retire, 
Devoted to the power whom we adare. 

Var. What power is that that merits such oblations \ 
1 thought the sun more great and glorious 
Than any that e'er mingled wiih the gods. 
Yet ev'n to him my father never offer'd 


More than a hecatomb of bulls and horses. 
Now, by those golden beams that glad the world, 
I swear it is too much : for one of these 
But half so bright our god would drive no more ; 
He 'd leave the darken'd globe, and in some cave 
Enjoy such charms for ever. 

^nic. My lord, forbear ; 
Such language does not suit with our devotions : 
Nothing profane must dare to murmur here. 
Nor stain the hallow'd beauties of the place. 
But thus far we must yield ! the emperor 
Is not enough prepar'd to leave the world. 

P^ar. Thus low, most reverend of this sacred place, 
I bow for pardon, and am half converted. 
By your permission that my Theodosius 
Return to my embraces. Oh, my brother I 
Wtiy dost thou droop? there will be time enough 
For prayer and fasting, and religious vows; 
Let us enjoy, while yet thou art my own, 
All the magnificence of eastern courts, 
I hate to walk a lazy life away j 
Let's run the race which fate has set before us. 
And post to the dark goal. 

" Theo. Cruel destiny I . 

" Why am not I thus too ? Oh, my Varanes ! 
" Why are these costly dishes set before me ? 
«' Why do these sounds of pleasure strike my ears ? 
*' Why are these joys brought to my sick remembrance, 
** Who have no appetite, but am to sense 
*' From head to foot all a dead palsy o'er f 


" Far. Fear not, ray friend : all shall be well 
« Again ; for I have thousand way sand thousand stories 
** To raise thee up to pleasure. We'll unlock 
*' Our fastest secrets, shed upon each other 
«' Our tend'rest cares, and quite unbar those doors 

*' Which shall be shut to all mankind beside." 

yiitic. Silence and rev'rence are the temple's dues, 
Therefore while we pursue the sacred rites 

Be these observ'd, or quit the awful place. 

*' Imperial sisters, now twin stars of Heaven, 

*' Answer the successor of Chrysostom ; 

" Without least teserva'ion answer me ; 

«' By those liarmonious rules I charg'd ye learn.*' 

Attic us sings. 

Attic. Canst thv, Marina^ leave ike world. 
The vjorld that is drjotion's bane, 
Whre crowns aretoit and sceptres hiirV d^ 
V/here lust and proud ambition reign f 

2. Pr. ** Canyon yavr costly robes forbeavy 
** To iirje with us in poor attire ? 
*< C^n you from courts to cells repuir, 
<' To sing at midnight in our choir ? 

3. Pr. *' Can you forget your golden beds, 

*■'■ Where you might sleep beyond the morn^ 
<« On mats to lay your royal heads, 

(>> And have your beavtcous tresses shorn ^ 

S<> THE0D0SIU3. Acl U 

Artie. ** Canyon resolve to fast all day^ 

*' And weep and groan to be forgiven t 
^ •* Can you in broken slumbers pray, 
** And by ajflitlion merit heaven f 

ChOr. Say^ Votaries^ can this he done? 

While zoe the grace divine implore^ 
The world is lost^ the battles' s wony 
And sin shall never charm ye more, 

Marina sings. 
The gate to bliss does open stand. 

And all my penance is in view ; 
The world upon the other hand 

Cries outf Oh do not bid adieu ! 

" Yetf sacredy sir, in these extremes, 

*♦ Where pomp and pride their glories tdl^ 

** Where youth and beauty are the themes , 
** And plead their moving cause so well.** 

Jf aught that^s vain my thoughts possess^ 

Or any passions govern here 
But what divinity may bless, 

Oh^ may I never enter there ! 

Flavilla singsi 
** What can pomp or glory do, 

** Or what can human charms persuade? 
•* That mind that has a heaven in view, 

** How can it be by earth bctrafd? 


<< No monarchy full of youth andfamcy 
<* The joy of eyes and nature's pride y 

« Should once my thoughts from Heaven reclaim^ 
*' Thd" now he woo'd me for his bride,** 

Haste theny oh haste ! and take ns n. 

For ever lock religion^ s door\ 
Secure us from the charms of sin ^ 

And let us see the world no more. 

ATTIC us sings. 
Hark, hark! behold the heavenly choir. 
They cleave the air in bright attire, 
j^nd see his lute each angel brings. 
And hark ! divinely thus he sings : 

To the Pow'rs divine all glory be given. 
By men upon earth and angels in Heaven. 
\Scene shuts, and all the Piies;s, with Marina and 
Flavilla, disappear. 

Pulch. For ever gone I for ever parted from me I 
Oh Theodosius ! till this cruel moment 
I never knew how tenderly I iov'd em; 
But on this everlasting separation 
Methinks my soul has left me, and my time 
Of dissolution points me to the grave. 

Theo. Oh, my Veranesl does not now thy temper 
Bate something of its fire ? Dost thou not melt 
In mere compassion of my sister's fate. 
And cool thyself with one relenting draught ? 

F&r. Yes, my dar'd soul rolls inward j melancholy. 


Whicli T ne'er felt before, now- comes upon me. 
And I begin to loatiie all human greatness : 
Oh ! sigh not then, nor thy hard fate deplore. 
For *iis resalv'd we will be kings no more: 
We'll fly all courts, and love shall be our guide. 
Love, that's more worth than all the world bshide. 
Princes are barr'd the liberty to roam ; 
The fetter'd mind still languishes at home ; 
In golden bands she treads the thoughtful round. 
Business and cares eternally abound ; 
And when for air the goddess would unbind. 
She's clogg'd with sceptres, and to crowns confin'd. 

\ ExeuiiU 


TiiePalaci. f/zf^r Pulcheria, Julia, and Attendants, 

There packets for the emperor Ilonorius : 
B'' sv.'ift, and let th' agent haste to P.ome — - — - - 
1 hear, my Julia, that our general 
Is from the Gotlis rerurri'd v^/ithxonquest home. 

Jul. He is ; to-day I saw him in the presence 
Sharp to the courtiers, as he ever was. 
Because they went not .with him to the wars : 
To you he bows, and sues to kiss your hand. 

Pulch. He shall, my dearest Julia ! Ofi' I Ve told 


The secret of my soul. If e'er I marry 
Marcian's my husband : he 's a man, my Julia, 
Whom I 've study'd long, and found him perfe^l:; 
Old P^ome at ev'ry glance looks thro' his eyes 
And kindles the beholders. Some sharp atoms 
Run thro' his frame which 1 could wish were out : 
He sickens at the softness of the emp'ror, 
And speaks too freely of our female court. 
Then sighs, comparing it with what Rome was. 

Enter Marcian and Lucius. 

Pulck. Ha ! who are these that dare profane this 
With m.ore than barb'rous insolence? 

Mar. At your feet 
Behold I cast the scourge of these offenders, 
And kneel to kiss your hand. 

Pulck. Put up your sword ; 
And ere I bid you welcome from the wars 
Be sure you clear your honour of this rudeness, 
Or, Marcian, leave the court. 

Mar. Thus then, madam : 
The emperor receiv'd me with afre(ftion, 
Embrac'd me for my conquests, and retir'd ; 
When on a sudden all the gilded flies 
That buzz about the court came flurt'ring round me % 
This with a(TeO:ed cringes and minc'd words 
Begs me to t^l my tale of victories ; 
Which done he thanks me, slips behind his fellow^^ 
Whispers him in the ear, tiien smiles and listejns 


While I relate my story once again : 

A tliird comes in and asks me the same favour, 

Whereon they laugh, while I, still ignorant, 

Go on ; but one behind, more impudent, 

Strikes on my shoulder, then they laugh'd outright j 

But then I, guessing the abuse too late, 

Return'd my knight behind a box o' the ear. 

Then drew, and briefly told them they were rascals ; 

They, laughing still, cry'd out the general's musty; 

Whereon I drove 'em, madam, as you saw. 

This is, in short, the truth ; I leave the judgment 

To your own justice : if I have done ill 

Sentence me, and I'll leave tlie court for ever, 

Pulch. First, you are welcome, Marcian, from the 
And still, whene'er occasion calls for arms, 
Heav'n send the emperor a general 
RenownM as Marcian I As to what is past, 
J think the world will rather praise than censure 
Pulcheria, when she pardons you theaftion. 

Mar, Gods, gods I and thou great founder of old 
Rome I 
■What is become of all that mighty spirit 
That rais'd pur empire to a pitch so high ? 
♦* Where is it pent ? What but almighty pow'r 
** Could thus confine it, that but some few atoms 
'* Now run thro' all the east and Occident}" 

Pulch. Speak calmly, Marcian ;■ 

Mar, Who can be temperate 
That thinks as I do, madam? Why I here 's a fellow, 


I 've seen him fight against a troop of Vandals 

In your defence, as if he lov'd to bleed. 

** Come to my arras, my dear I thou canst not talk, 

** But has a soul above the proudest of 'em. 

•' Oh, madam 1 when he has been all over blood, 

*' And hack'd with wounds that seem'd to mouth his 

" I 've seen him smile still as he piish'd death from 

** And with his actions rally distant fate. 

" Pnkh. He has a noble form." 

Mar. Yet, ev'n this man. 
That fought so bravely in his country's cause, 
This excellent man, this morning, in the preseiice. 
Did I see wrongM before the emperor; 
Scorn'd and despis'd, because he could not cringe, 
Nor plant his feet as some of them could do. 
<' One said his clothes were not well made, anddamn'd 

** His t ay lor another said he look'd 

'* As if he had not lost his maidenhead.'* 
If things are suffered to be thus, down all 
Authority, pre-eminence, degree, and virtue ; 
Let Rome be never mention'd ; no, i' th' name 
Of all the gods be she forgotten ever I 
Effeminate Persians and the Lydian softness 
Make all your fights : Marcian shall out no more, 
For by my arms it makes a woman of me ; 
And my swol'n eyes run o'er, to think this worth, 
This fuller honour than the whole court hold^ 
Should be ridiculous to knaves and fools, 

g» THEODOSIUS. A61 11, 

*' Should starve for want of what is necessary 
** To life's convenience, when luxurious bawds 
** Are so o'ergrown with fat and cramm'd with riot, 
" That they can hardly walk without an engine," 

Puich, Why did not you inform the emperor ? 

Mar, Because he will not hear me. Alas ! good man. 
He flies from this bad world; and still when vv^ars 
And dangers come, he runs to his devotions; 
To your new thing — I know not v.' hat you call it. 
Which Constantine began. 

Pukh. How, MarcianI are not you 
Of that religion which the emp'ror owns ? 

Mar, No, madam. If you Ml see my honest thoughts, 
I am nirt of their principle that take 
A wrong ; so far from bearing with a foe 
I would strike first, like old Rome ; *' I would forth, 
*' Elbow the neighboring nations round about, 
*^ Invade, enlarge my empire to the bounds 
*' Of fhe too narrov/ universe. Yes, I own 
*' That 1 despise your holy innovations ; 
** 1 'm for the Roman gods, for funeral piles, 
*' For mounting eagles, and the fancy'd greatness 
^' Of our forefathers." Methinks my heated spirit 
Could utter th'ngs worth losing of my head. 

Pulch. Speak freely, Marcian, for I know thee honest. 

Mar. Oh, madam ! long, long may the emp'ror 
live ! 
But I must say his gentle disposition 
Suits not, alas 1 the oriental sway : 
** Bid him but look on Pharamond; oh Gods I 


«< Awake hira with the image of that spirit 

« Which, like a pyramid revers'd, is grown 

i« Ev'n from a point to the most dreadful greatness j 

«« His very name already shakes the world, 

«< And still in person heading his fierce squadrons, 

«« Like the first Cssar o'er the hardy Gauls, 

«' He seems another thunderbolt of war." 

Pulclu I oft' have blam'd my brother most for this, 
That to my hand he leaves the state affairs j 

And how that sounds you know 

Mar. Forgive me, madam I 
I think that all the greatness of your sex, 1 

Rome's Clelia, and the fam'd Semiram^i^s, 
«« With all the Amazonian valour too,'* 
Meet in Pulcheria : yet I say forgive me. 
If with reluaance I behold a woman 
Sit at the empire's helm and steer the world! 

Puich. 1 stand rebuk'd 

Mar. "■ Mark but the growing French : 
«t The most auspicious omen of their greatness 
«♦ That 1 can guess is their late Salique law, 
*« Bless'd by their priests the Salii, and pronounc'd 
<c To stand for ever, which excludes all women 
«« From the imperial crown/' But oh! I speak 
The least of all those infinite grievances 
Which make the subjects murmur. In the army, 
Tho' I proceeded still like Hannibal, 
And punish'd ev'ry mutineer with death, 
Yet oh 1 it stabb'd me thro' and thro' the soul 
To pass the wretches' doom, because I knew 
D iij 


with justice they complain'd ; for hard they fought, 
And with their blood earn'd that forbidden bread 
Which some ai court, and great ones, tho' unnam'd. 
Cast to tlieir hounds, while the poor soldiers starv'd — 

Pulck. Your pity too, in mournful fellowship, 
No doubt might soothe their murmurs. 

Mar. Yes, it did; 
That I might put them once again in heart 
I said 't was true the emp'ror was to blame, 
Who dealt too coldly with his faithful servants. 
And paid their great arrears by second-hands : 
I promis'd too, when we return'd to court, 

Things should be mended— 

But how, oh gods ! forgive my blood this transport j 

To the eternal shame of female counsels. 

And to the blast of Theodosius' name. 

Whom never warlilce chronicle shall mention, "■ 

<' Oh, let me speak it with a Roman spirit I'j 

We were receiv'd like undone prodigah, 

By curs'd ungrateful stewards, with cold looks. 

Who yet got all by tho^e poor wretches' ruin, 

*' Like malefactors at the hands of justice. 

** I blush, I almost weep, with bursting nige; 

*' ] f thus receiv'd how paid our long arrears ? 

*• Why, as intrListed misers pay the rights 

*' Of helpless widows or the orphans' tears. 

<' Oh, sold'er 1 for' to thee, to thee I speak it, 

*' Bawds for the drudgery of citizens' wives - 

<« A'ould better pay debilitated stallions." 

Madam, "I 've said perhaps too much j if so 


It matters not ; for he who lies, like me, 

On the hard ground, is sure to fall no further. 

Pulch. I 've given you patient hearing, honest 
And as far as I can see into your temper, 
*' I. speak my serious judgment in cold blood, 
" With strictest consultation on the matter," 
I think this seeming plain and honest Marcian 
An exquisite and most notorious traitor. 

Mar. Ha! traitor! 

Pulch, Yes, a most notorious traito.. 

*« Mar. Your grandfather, whose frown could awe 
the world, 
«f Would not have call'd me so — or if he had— 

Pulch. " You would have taken it." But to the 

Was't not enough, oh heaven thou know'st too much I 
At first to own yourself an intidel, 
A bold contemner, ev'n to blasphemy, 
Of tliat religion which we all prote^s, 
For which your heart's best blood can ne'er suffice, 
But you must dare, with a seditious army, 
Thus to conspire against the emperor \ 
I mention not your impudence to me. 
Taxing the folly of my government 
Ev'n to my face, such an irreverence ' . 
As sure no barb'rous Vandal would have urg'd; 
Besides your libelling all the court, as if 
You had engross'd the whole world's honesty. 

3^ THEOEOSIUS. ^<g //, 

And flatt'rers, fools, and sycophants, and knaves. 
Such was your language, did inhabit there. 

Mar. You wrest my honest meaning, by the gods 
You do; *' and if you thus go on I feel 
** My struggling spirit will no longer bear it.*' 

Pukh. I thought the meaning of all rational men 
Should still be gather'd out of their discourse ; 
Nor are you so imprudent without thinking 
To vent such words, tho' now you fain would liide it. 
You find the guilt and balk the accusation. 
But think not you shall scape so easily : 
Oiice more I do confront you as a traitor ; 
And as I am intrusted with full pow'r, 
Divest you, in the name of Theodosius, 
Of all your offices, commissions, honours; 
Command you leave the court within three days. 
Loyal, plain-dealing, honest Mercian. 
Mar. Gods I gods ! 

Pukh, " What now \ Ha ! does the traitor murmur ? 
*' If in three days— mark me — 't is I that doom thee— 
*' Rash inconsiderate man, a wretch beneath 
*' The torments I could execute upon thee,'* 
If after three days space thou'rt found in court 
Thou dy'st; thy head, thy head shall pay the forfeit. 
*' Now rage, now rail, and curse the court ; 
<* Saucily dare t' abuse the best of princes, 
** And let thy lawless tongue lash all it can ; 
'< Do, like a madman rave, deplore thy fortune 
" While pages laugh at thee." Then haste to th' army, 



Grow popular, and lead the multitude ; 

Preach up thy wrongs, and drive the giddy beast 

To kick at Cassar. Nay, if thou weep'st I 'm gone. 

Oh, Julia! if I stay I shall weep too. 

Yet 't is but just that I the heart should see 

Of him who yet must lord it over me. [ Aiide. 

2xeuntFi\\ch. and Julia. 

Lvc. Why -do you droop, sir I Come, no more 

o' tills ; 

You are and shall be still our general. 

Say but the word, I'll fill the Hippodrome 

Witli squadrons that shall make the emp'ror tremble. 

We'll fire the court about his ears. 

Methinks, like J'unius Brutus, I have watch'd 

An opportunity, and now it comes — 

Few words and I are friends; but, noble Marcianl 

If yet thou art not more than general 

Ere dead of night say Lucius is a coward. 

Mar. I charge thee, in the name of all the gods, 
Come back ; I charge thee by the name of friend. 
All 's well, and I rejoice I am no general. 
But hush ! within three days we must begone. 
And then, my friend, farewell to ceremony: 
We'll fly to some far distant lonely village, 
Torget our former state, and breed with slaves, 
And when night comes, 
With bodies coarsely fiU'd, and vacant souls, 
Sleep like the labour'd hind-, and never think, 
^or if I think again I shall go mad: 


Enter Leontine and Athenais. 

Therefore no thought. But see, we're interrupted, 
Oh court ! oh emperor 1 yet let death threaten 

I '11 find a time ; 'till then be still my soul . 

** No general now; a member of thy country, 
** But most corrupt, therefore to be cut off j 
** Loyal, plain-dealing, honest Marcian. 
** A slave, a traitor I Oh, ye eternal gods I" — 


Leon. So Athenais, now our compliment 
To the young Persian prince is at an end, 
What then remains but that we take our leave, 
And bid him everlastingly farewell ? 

Athen. My lord I 

Leon. I say that decency requires 
We should be gone, nor can you stay with honour. 

Athen. Most true, my lord 1 

Leon. The court is now at peace, 
The emperor's sisters are retir'd for ever. 
And he himself compos'd ; what hinders then 
But that we bid adieu to Prince Varanes ? 

Athen. Ah, sir ! why will ye break, my heart ? 

Leon. I would not ; 
Thou art the only comfort of my age : 
Like an old tree I stand amongst the storms ; 
Thou art the only limb that I have left me, [She kneels. 
My dear green branch ! and how I prize thee, child, 
Heaven only knows. Why dcst thou kneel and weep? 

j^fi U, THEODOSIUS. 39 

Atken. Because you are so good, and will, I hope, 
Forgive my faults, who first occasion'd it. 

Leon. I charg'dthee to receive and hear the prince. 
Athen. You did! and oh! my lord, I heard too 
Too much, 1 fear, for my eternal quiet. 

Leon. Rise Athenais; credit him who bears 
More years than thou : Varanes has deceived thee. 

Athen. How do we differ then ? You judge the prince 
Impious and base, while I take Heaven to witness 
I think him the most virtuous of men ; 
Therefore lake heed, my lord, how you accuse him 
Before you make the trial. Alas, Varanes < 
If thou art false there's no such thing on earth 
As solid goodness or substantial honour. 
A thousand times, my lord, he has sworn to give me 
(And I believe his oaths) his crown and empire 
That day I make him master of my heart. 

Leon, That day he '11 make thee mistress of his 
Which carries a foul name among the vulgar. 
No, Athenais, let me see thee dead, 
Borne a pale corpse, and gently laid in earth, 
So I may say she 's chaste and dy'd a virgin, 
Rather than view thee with these wounded eyes 
Seated upon the throne of Isdigerdes, 
The blast of common tongues, the nobles' scorn 
Thy father's curse, that is, the prince's whore. 

jithen. Oh, horrid supposition I how I detest it 
Be witness Heaven that sees my secret thoughts I 

4« THE0D0SIU5. j4ci 11, 

** Have T for this, my lord, been taught by you 
<» The nicest justice and sei'erest virtue, 
«* To fear no death, to know no end of life, 
** And witli long search discern the highest good ? 
" No Athenais; when the day beholds thee 
•< So scanfialotisly rais'd, pride cast thee down; 
" Tiie scorn of honour and the people's prey l" 
"No, cruel Leontine, not to redeem. 
That aged head from the descending axe. 
Not tho' I saw thy trembling body rack'd, 
Thy wrinkles all about thee tiU'd with blood, 
Wovdd I for empire, to the man I love 
Be made the object of unlawful pleasure. 

Leon^ Oh. greatly said, and by the blood which warms 
Which runs as rich as any Athens holds, 
It v/ould improve the virtue of the world 
If ev'ry day a thousand votaiies 
And thousand virgins came from far to bear thee! 

Athen. Look down, ye pow'rs, take notice we obey 
Tne rigid principles- ye have infus'd ; 
Yet oil, my noble father I to convince you, 
Slf.ce )0U wi'U have it so, propose a marriage, , j 

Tha' With the thought 1 'in covered o*er with blushesc J 
Not that I doubt the prince; that were to doubt 
The heavens tiiemselves. I know he is all truth : 

But modesty— • 

The virgin's troublesome and constant guest, 
'] hat, that alone forbids — — . 

Levn, i wi.siUo Heaven 


There prove no greater bar to my relief. 
Behold the prince :. I will retire a while. 
And when occasion calls come to thy aid. [£A"zVLeon, 

Efiter Varanes a?id Aranthes« 
Var. To fix her on the throne to me seems little ; 
Were I a god yet would 1 raise her higher; 
This is the nature of thy prince : but oh ! 
As to the world thy judgment soars above me. 
And I am dar'd with this gigantic honour ; 
Glory forbids her prospect to a crown, 
Nor must she gaze that way : my haughty soul 
That day when she ascends the throne of Cyrus, 
Will leave ray body pale, and to the stars 
iletire in blushes, and quite lost for ever. 
Aran. What do you purpose then ? 
far. I know not what. 
But see, she comes, the glory of my arms ; 
The only business of my constant thought. 
My soul's best joy, and all my true repose. 
I swear I cannot bear these strange desires, 
These strong impulses, which will shortly leave me 

Dead at thy feet 

Athen. What have you found, m.y lord, 
In me so harsh or cruel that you fear 
To speak your griefs ? 

Var. First let me kneel and swear. 
And on thy hand seal my religious vow : 
Straight let the breath of gods blow me from earth, 
Swept from the book of fame, forgotten ever, 

42 THEODOSIUS. ^(2 //, 

If I prefer thee nor, oh Athenais! 
To all the Persian greatness. 

Athen. I beheve you, 
For I have heard you Swear as much before. 

l^'ar. Hast ihou ? oh, why then did I swear again, 
3ut that my lovc knew nothing worthier of thee, 
And could no better way express my passion ? 

Athen, Oh, rise my h;rd I 

I ar. I will do ev'ry thing 
Which Athenais bids : if there be more 
In nature to convijjce thee of my love. 
Whisper it, oh! some god, inft) my ear, 
And on her breast thus to her list'ning soul 
I '11 breathe the inspiration. Wilt thou not speak ? 
What, but 0)ie sigh, no more! can that suffice 
For all my vast expense of prodigal love I 
** Oh, Athenais ! what shall I say or do 
** To gain the thing I wish ? 

*' Athen. What 's that, my lord? 

'* I'ar. Thus to approach thee still, thus to Leliold 

thee ^T- 

*♦ Yet there is more.*"' ' 

Jithen. My lord, I dare not hear you. 

Var. Why do5t thou frown at what thou dost not 
know ? 
-'Tis an imagination which ne'er pierc'd thee; 
Yet as 't is ravi^hmg, 'tis full of honour. 

Athen. I must not doubt you, sir; but, oh I I 
Tothi(ik if Isdigcrdes should behold you, 

A^ i{. TTIF0D03IL*S. 43 

Should hear you thus protesting to a maid 
Of no degree but virtue in the world — 

Var. No more of this, no more ; fur I disdain 
A! I pomp when thou art by. Far be the noise 
Of kini;S and courts from us, whoL-e gentle souls 
Our kinder stars have steer 'd another way. 
Free as the forest birds we '11 pair together, 
Without remembering who our fathers were, 
FK to tlie arbours, grot«, and flowery meads, 
And in soft murmurs interchange our souls, 
Toijether drmk the ciuystalot" the stream, 
Or taste t'-.e yellow fr«it which autumn yields, 
And when the golden ev'ning calls us home 
Wing to oiu" downy nest ar;d sleep 'till n>orn. 

Athtn. AhJ prince! no more; forbear, forbear, 
to charm me, 
Since I amdoom'd to leave you, sir, for ever. 

lar. HolJ, Athenais 

AiJien. I know your royal temper," 
And that hi^;h honour reigns witiiin your breast, 
Wh^ch would disdain to waste so many hours 
With one of humble birth compar'd to you, 
Unless strong passion sway'd your thoughts to love 

her ? 
Tliereftjre receive, oh prince! and take it kindly. 
For none on earth but yt u cculd vria it Iro m nie^ 
Receive the gift of my eternal love; 
'Tis all I can bestow; nor is it littl'^> 
For sure a heart so coldly ciiaste as mine 
Ko charms but yours, my lord, could e'er have warm'd 
' £ ij 


Far. Vv'ell have you made amends by this last 
For the cold dart you shot at me before : 
For tliis last goodness, oli, my Athenais! 
(For ROW methinks I ought to cull you mine) 
I '11 empiy all my soul in thanks before you : 
Yet oh! one fear remains, like death it chiUs me, 
Why, my reienting love, did talk of parting 1 

Athen, Look there, and cease to wonder. I liave 
T' obey my father, and l^e calls me hence. ^ 
Enter Leontine. 

T^ar. Ha, Leonline ! by which of ail my actions 
Have I so deeply injur'd thee to m^^rit 
The smartest wound revenge could form to end me > 

Leon. Answer me now, oh prince 1 for virtue 
prompts me. 
And honesty will daliy now no longer : 
What can the end of all this passion be ? 
Glory requires the strict account, and asks 
What you intend at last to Athenais J 

Vat. How, Leontine 1 

ieo«. You saw her, sir, at AtiienSjSaid youlov'dher: 
I tharg'd her hum*bly to receive the honour. 
And hear your passion. Has she not, sir, obey'd me ? 

Var. She has, 1 thank the gods j but whiiher vvould'st 
thou ? 

Leon. Having j.esolv'd to visit Theodosius 
You swore you would not go without my daughter. 
Whereon I gave command that she should fuliow* 

Jjlff, THE«DOSIUS< 4S 

yar. Yes, Leontine, mv old remembrancer, 
Most learn'd ot all philosophers, yoa did. 

LeGn, Thus long she h:is atiended ; you have seen 
^ her, 

Sounded her virtues and her imperfeaions ; 
Therefore, dread sir, forgive this bolder charge 
Which honour sounds, and now let me demand you- 

i/ar. Now help, Aranthes, or 1 'm dash'd for ever. 

Aran. VVhatevei" happens, sir, disdain the marriage. 

Leon. Cm your h'l-h though .s so far forget them- 
T' admit this humble virgin for your bride ? 

rar. Hal 

^tJien. He blushes, gods 1 and stammers at the 
question ! 

Leon. Why do you walk and chafe yourself, my lord ? 
The business is not much. 

p^ar. How, I^eontinel 
Not much! I know that she deserves a crown; 
Yet '£ is to reason much, tho' not lo love : 
And sure the world would blush to see the daughter 
Of a philosopher upon the throne of C)rus. 

^tken. Undone for ever 1 

Leon. Is this >our answer, sir ? 

Var. Why dost thou urge nv> thus, and push me to 
The very brink of glory f where, alas I 
1 look and tremble at the vast descent j 
Yet e'en tliere to the vast bottom > OAn 
My rash advent'rer, Love, would have me leap. 
And grasp my Amenais with my ruin. 

45 THEODosrus, AQ,IU 

Leon. 'Tis well, my lord 

Var. Why dost thou tlien provoke rr<e ? 
I thought that Per:>ia's court had store of honour 
To satisfy tlie height of thy ambition. 
Besides, old man, my iove is too well grown 
To want a tutor for his good behaviour ; 
What he will do he of himself will do. 

And not be taught by you 

Leon. I know he Vv ill not ; 
Fond tears away ; I know, I know he will not ; 
But he would buy with this old man's preferment 
My daughter's shame. 

Var, Away, I say ! my soul disdains the motion, 
L,eon. The motion of a marriage — yes, I see it; 
Your angry looks an<i haughty words betrayit ; 
I found it at the first- I thank you, sir. 
You have at last rewarded your old tutor 
For all his cares, his Watcliings, services : 
Yet let me tell you, sir, tliis humble maid, 
This daughter of a poor philosopher. 
Shall, it she please, be seated on a throne 
As high as that of the immorial Cyrus. 

Var. I think tliat age and deep philosophy 
l^averrack'd tliy brain. Farewell, old Leuntinej 
Ilerire to rest; and when this brawling humour 
3s rock'd asleep, I'll meet my Aihenais, 
And Clear th' accounts of love which thou hast blotted. 

Lzon. Old Leontine! Perhaps I 'm mad indeed. 
But hold, my Jieart, and let that solid virtus 

Jfill. THEODOSfUS. 47 

Which I solongador'd still keep the reins. 
Oh, Athenais I but I will not chide thee : 
F^teis in all our adions ; and methinics, 
At least a father judges so, it has 
Reb-.'.k'd tnee smartly for thy easiness : 
There is a kind of mournful eloquence 
In th^ dumb grief which shames all clam'rous sorrow. 
" yjUen. Alasl my breast is full of death; methinks 
*< I fear ev'n you— — — 

" Leon. Why should thou fear thy father ? 
<' At/ien. Because you have the figure of a man!'* 
Ts there, .oh speak S a possibility 
To be forgiven ? 

Leon. Thy father does forgive thee, 
And honour will ; but on this hard condition, 

Never to see him more 

At/zen, See him 1 oh heavens! 
Leon, Uidess it be, my daughter, to upbraid him j 
Not tho' he shoiild repent and straight return. 

Kay, profier thee his crown No more of that. 

Honour too cries revenge, revenge thy wr-ong>. 
Revenge thyself, revenge thy in;ur'd father; 
For 'tis levenge so wise, so glorious too> 
As all the world shall praise——- 

Aificn-. Oh, give me leave, 
For yet 1 am all tenderness: the, 
The weak, the mild, .the fond, the coward woman, 
Dares not look forth, but runs about ray breaat. 
And visits all llie warmer mansions there, 


Where si\e so oft has liarboiir'd false Vafanesl 
Cruel Varanesl false, forswor/i Varanes 1 

Leon. Is ihis forgetting himf is this the course 
Which honour bids thee take. 

J then. Ah, sir, allow 
A little time for love to make his way: 
Hardly he won the placcj and many sighs, 
And many tears, and thousand oaths, it cost him 5 
And oh I 1 find he will not be dislodg'd 
Vv''ithout a groan at parting hence for ever. 
No, no I he vows he will not yet be rais'd 
Without whole floods of grief at his farewell. 
Which tiAis I sacrifice: and oh, i swear 
Had he prov'd true, I would as easily 
Have emptyd all my blood, and died to serve him 
As nov/ I shed these drops or vent these sighs, 
To shew how well, how perfe<5tly I lov'd him. 

Leon. No wonian sure but thou, so low in fortune j . 
Therefore the nobler is tliy fair example. 
Would thus have griev'd because a prince ador'd her; 
Nur will it be belie v'd in after-times 
That there was ever such a maid in being : 
Yet do I still advise preserve thy virtue; 
And sioce he does disdain thee for his bride 
Scorn thou to be 

Athen. Hold, sir; oh, hold, forbear, 
For my nice soul abhors the very sound ; 
Yet with the shame of that, and the deiirs 
Of jiix immortal name I a;n inspir'd ; 


All kinder thoughts are fted for ever from me ; 
AU tenderness, as if I ne'er had lov'd, 
H^s left mv bosom colder than the grave. 

Leon. Oh,Athenais! on; 't is bright before thee; 
Pursue the track, a«d thou shalt be a star. 

Jiken, Oh, Leontine 1 I swear, my noble father. 
That I will starve ere once forego my virtue ; 
And let's join to contradia the world, 
Thac em re could not tempt a poor old man 
To sel' '■.- prince the honour of his daughter. 
And sb.e too maich'd the spirit of her father ; 
Tho' humbly born and yet more humbly bred, 
Shefor her fame refus'd a royal bed, 
Who tho' she lov'd yet did put otFthe hour. 
Nor could her virtue be betray'd bv power. 
PaUerns like these will guilty courts improve. 
And t^ach the fair to blu.h ar consacus love : 
Then let all maids tor honour come m view, 

' If any maid can more for glory do.' 



Enter Varanes and Ahanthes. 

OME to my arms, my faithful, dear Aranthes, 
Soft counsellor, companion of i;vv youth I 
If I had longer been alone most sure, 
With the distraition that surrounds my heart, 


My hand would have rebell'd against his master 
And done a murder here. 

" Aran. The gods forbid! 

'* t^ar. I swear I press thee with as hearty joy 
'* As ever fearful bride embrac'd her man 
" When from a dream of death she wak'd, and found 
*' Her lover safe and sleeping by her side." 

yiraji. The cause, my lord ? 

r^ar. Early thou knovv'st last night T went to rest ;» 
But long, my -friend, ere slumber clos'd my eyes, 
Long was the combat fought 'twixt love and glory j 
The fever of my passion burnt me up j 
My pangs grew stronger, and my rack was doubled j 
*' My bed was all afloat with the cold drops 
*' That mortal pain wrung from my laboring limbs, 
«' My groans more deep than others' dying gaspsj" 
Therefore I charge thee haste to her apartment \ 
*' 1 do conjure thee tell her, tell her all 
*' My fears can urge or fondness can invent; 
*' Tell her how I repent ; say any thing, 
*' For any thing I '11 do to quench my fires:" ' 
Say I will marry her now on the instant ; 
Say all that I would say, yet in the end 
My love shall make it more than gods can utter. 

/iran. My lord, both Leontine and she are gone 
From their apartment — 

f''ar. Ha! gone, say'stthou! whither? 
. Aran, That was my whole employment all this day; 
Bur, sir, I grieve to speak it, they have left 


No track beliind for care to find them out ; 
Nor is It possible- — — 

^(ir. It is, it shall; ' 

I '11 struggle with impossibilities 
To fip.d my Athenais : not the walls 
Ot ^Athens nor of Thebes shall hide her from trie: 
I M bring the force of all my father's arms 
And lav them waste but I'll redeem my love. 
Oh, Leontine I morose old Leontine ! 
Thou mere philosopher I oh, cruel sage! 
Who for one hasty word, one choleric doubt, 
I-iast turn'd the scale, tho' in the sacred balance 
My life, my glory, and my empire hung! 

Aran. Most sure, my lord, they are retir'd to 

I will send post to-night • 

I'ar. No, no, Aranthes ; 
Prepare my chariot'?, for I '11 go in person, 
I swear 'lill now, 'till I began to fear 
Some other might enjoy my Athenais, 
1 swear 1 did not know how much I lov'd her. 
But let 's away ; I '11 to the emperor, 
Tliou to the has'y manauemei t of business. 
** Prepare ; to-day I '11 go, to-day I il find her : 
*' No more ; I '11 take my leave cf Theodosius, 
*' And meet th e on tlie Hippodrome. Away i'* 
Lefthe wild hurry of thy master's love 
Make quick thy apprehension : haste, and leave m?. 



SCENE If. 1 

£;z.Vr PuLCHERiA, Atticus, Leontine; I^otC' 
ries leading Athenais in ProcesdoUj afur her Bap" 
. tiiiiiy tc be confirmed, 

<* Atticus sings. 

" Ohy Chrysostovil look down and sez 
*' An ojfWing worthy Heaven and thee I 
*' S>o rich the viBhuy bright and/air^ \' 

*' I'hai she on earth appears a star : 
*^ Chor. Eudosia is the virgin s name^ 

" Jnd after times shall sing her fame. 

n Atticus si7igs. 
*' Lead her^ Votaries^ lead her in^ 
. *' Her holy birth docs now begin. 

** I Vot. in humble weeds, but clean array ^ 

*' Your hours shall sweetly pass away^ 
*^ And when the divine are pasty 
" To pleasant gardens you shall haste, 

** 2 Vot. Where many ajlow'ry bed we have, 
*' That emblem still to each a grave; 
** And when within the stream we look, 
*' With tears we use to Swell the brook ; 
" But oh I when in the liquid glass 
** Our heaven appears ^ we sigh to pass : 

** Chor. For heaven alone we arc design'' dj 

*' And all things bring our heaven to ?nind.'* 


^^^e?2. Oh, princess! oh! most worthy of the^worid. 
That is submitted by it's emperor 
To your most wise arrd providential sway ! 
What Greek or Roman eloquence can paint 
The rapture and devotion of my soul I 
I am adopted your's; you are m^y goddess, 
That have new.forii)'d,ne\v.m.ouldedmy conceptions, 
«* And by the platform of a work divine 
«' New.framM, new-built me to your own desires, 
" Thrown all the kimber of my passions out, 
" And made my heart a m.ansion of perfection ! 
«' Cean as an anchoret's grot or votarist's cell, 
«' And spotless as the glories of his steps 
« Whom we far oft' adore.'* 

Piilch. Rise,Xudosia, 
And let me fold my Christian in my arras : 
With this dear pledge of an eternal love 
I seal thee, oh Eudosia 1 m.ine for ever : 
Accept, best charge, the vovvs of my affection. 
For, by the sacred friendship that i give thee, 
I think that Heaven by miracle did send thee 
To ease my cares, to help me in my counsels. 
To be my sister, partner hi my bed. 
And equally thro' my whole course of life 
' To be the better part of thy Pulcheria, 
And share my griefs and joys. 

Athen. No, madam, no ; 
Excuse the cares that this sad wretch must bring you : 
«' Oh 1 rather let me leave the world for ever 5" 
Or if I must partake ycor roy-l secrets, 

54 TH E o D o s I u s.' Aa UL 

** If you reserve to load nie witii such honour," 
Let it be far from cities, far from courts. 
Where I may Hv all human conversarion, 
Where I may never see, nor hear, n^r name. 
Nor think, nor dream, oh heaven 1 if pr-ssible, 
Of mankind more. 

" Pulch. What now ! in tears Eudosia! 

^^Atken. Far from the guilt of palaces, oh, send me ! 
" Drive me, oh, drive m.e from the traitor man I 
" So I might 'scape that n.onsrer, let rae dv\'eil 
*' In lions' haunts or in some fij;er's den ; 
*' Place m.e on some steep, cn^giry, ru'*nM rock, 
" That bellies out, just dropping in the ocean ; 
*' Bury me in the hollow of its womb, 
*' Where, starving on my cold and fi:ntv' bed, 
*' I may fro:n i"ar, with giddy apprehension, 
'' See infinite fathoms down the rumbling deep ; 
<' Yet not e'en there," in that vast whirl of death, 
*-' Can there be found so terrible a ruin 
** As man, false man, smiling, destructive 1*' 

Pulch. Then thou hast lovM, Eudosia. Oh, my sister ! 
Still nearer to mv heart, so much the dearer, 
Because our fates are like, and hand in hand 
Cur fortunes lead us thro* the maze ot life : 
I 'm glad that thou hast lov'd; nay, lov'd with drmger. 

Since thou hast 'scap'd the ruin. <« Methinks it 

** The weight of my calamities, tliat thou 
*' (!n all things else so perfeft and divine} 
" Art yet akin to my iiifiraiity. 

AB ilk i-?i:ODOSiuS. 55r 
** And bear'st thy p;irt in love's melodious ill ; 
*' Lave, thar like bane peiTum'd, infefts the mind, 
*' That sad delight tliat charms all womankind." 
Aiken. Yes, mudim, I confess that iove huscharm'd 
But never shall again : ** no, I renounce him. 
*' Inspire uie all the wrongs of ahus'd u'oman ; 
** AH you thai have been cozen'd by false men, 
** See what a s\\:\t\ example 1 will maice; 
** But for the perjuries ot one 1 will revenge ye 
*' For ail rhat's past, that 's present, and to come. 
Puicli. "Oil, thtni tar mure than the most mascu- 
line vut-je ! 
** Where, our Astrea, where, oh, drowning brightnessl 
*' vV'iiere hast thou been so long ? Let me again 
*< Protest my admintion and my love ; 
*' Let me detJaie aloud, while tliou art here, 
*' Wi'ile such clear t'irtue shines within our circle, 
*' Vice shall no nK)re appear within ihe palace, 
** But hide her dazzled eyes, and this be call'd 
*' The holy court. But'' lo! the erap'ror comes : 
Beauty like thine may drive ihat far away 
Tnat has so long eutranc'd his soul. My lord ■ 

Enter Thy.odos\\js and Attendants. 
Thio. If yet, alas 1 I mi-;ht but hope to see her; 
But oh ! forgive me. Heaven, this wilder start 
That thus would reach impossibilify ; 
Mo, RO, I never must behold iier more. 
F ij 

^S THEODOSIUS. Ji5l llh 

As well my Atticiis might raise the dead, 
As Leontine .should charm that form in view, 

Pulch. My lord, I com.e to give your grief a cure 
With purer flames to draw that cruel fire 

That tortur'd you so long -Behold this virgin— — . 

The daughter of your tutor, Leontine. 

riieo. Ah! 

** Pulch, She is your sister's charge, and made a 
*< And Athenais is Eudosia now : 
*' Be sure a fairer never grac'd religion, 
<« And for her virtue she transcends example." 

I'heo. Oh, all you blest above! how can this be? 
Arn I awake f oris (his possible r * [Athen. kneeh, 

Pulch. She kneels, my iord-j will not you go aad 
raise her ? 

l^hco. Nay, do thou raise her, for I 'm rooted here; 
Yet, if laborious love and melancholy 
Have not o'ercoine me, and quite turn'd me mad, 
It must be she, that naked dazzling sweetness ! 
The very figure of that morning- star 
That, dropping pearls and sliedding dewy beams, 
Fled from the greedy waves when i approach'd. 
Answer m.e, Leontine; am I distracled, 

Or is this true ? «' By thee in ail encounters 

" I v/ill be rul'd; intemperaoce and wildness, 
*' When reason clashes with extravagance. 
*^ Biit speak" — 

Lecn. 'T is true, my lord; this is my daughter, 
l/V^hom I conceal'd in Persia from all eyes 


But your's, when chance directed yon that way. 
liico. Kc says 't is true ; why then this heariless car- 
This lazv spirit? 

«' Oh, were I proof ngainst the darts of love, 
*<■ And cold to beauty as the marble lover 
«' That lies without a thought upon his tomb, 
«» Would not this glorious dawn of life run thro' me 
** And waken deatii itself'.'"' Why am I slow ilien f 
What hinders now but that in spite of rules 
I burst thro' all the bands of death that hold me, 

\_Ke kncds. 
And fly with such a haste to that appearance 
As burs'd saints shall make at the ia^t sumu.ons ? 

Athai. The emperor at my feet 1 Oh, sir! forgive mej 
Drown me not thus with everlasting shame : 
Boh heaven and earth must blush at such a view, 

Nor can I bear it longer 

Leon. My lord, she is unworthy 

Theo. Hal wliat say'sr thou, Leontine? 
** Unworthy ! oh, thou atheist to perfeilion ! 
" All that the blooming earth could send forth fair, 
« All that the gaudy heavens could drop down 

glorious 1" 
Unworthy, say'st tliou ! Wert thou not her father 
1 swear I would revenge— But haste and tell me, 
For love like mine will bear no second thought. 
Can all the honours of the orient. 
Thus saci ific'd with the most pure afToflion, 
' With spotless thoughts and languishing desires^ 
F ili ^ 

?:8 THEODOSIUS. jidlll. 

OiDtain, oil, Leontine! — the crown at last — 
To thee I speak — thy daughter to my bride ? 

Lecn, My lord, the honour bears svvch estimation 
It calls rny blood i;ito tny aged cheeks. 
And quire o'erwhelms my daughter with confusion, 
VViio with her body prostrate on the earth 
Ought to adore you for the proifer'd glory. 

Tkeo, Let me embrace and thank thee, oh, kind 
Heaven 1 
Oh Atticus ! Pulcheria ! oh, my father I 
Was ever change like m.ine ? Run thro' (lie streets; 
*' Who waits there r" Riin, and ior.d as fame can speak 
"With trumpet sounds proclaim your emperor's joy : 
*' And, as of old, on the great festival 
** Of her they call the mother of the gods, 
*' Let all work cease, at least an oaken garland 
** Crown each plebeian head ; let sprightly bowis 
" Be dol'd about, and the tcss'd cymbais sound; 
** Tell them their much lamented Theodosius 
*' By miracle is brought from death to life ; 
" His melancholy's gone, ana now once more 
*' He shail appear at the stare's helm again; 
*' Nor fear a wreck while tiiis briglu srar direch us; 
** For while she shines, no sands, no treach'rous rocks 
** Shall lie unseen, but I will cut my way 
*' Secure as Neplune thro' the iiighest stream, 
*' And to the port in safety steer the world." 

jithen, Alas ! my lord, consider my extraclion. 
With all my other Vvants— - 

lino. Peace, eir;press, peace 1 

Atllll. THEODOSiUS. ^ 5j 

No more the daughter of old Leontine, 
A Cliristian. now, and partner of the east. 

^tken. My fa' her has dispos'd me, you command me j 
What can I anv.ver then but my obedience ? 

TrUo. Attend her, dear Palcheria I and oh, tell he? 
To-morrow, if she please, I will be happy. 
Oh, why so long should I my joys delay i 

[Exeunt Pulch. and Athen, 
Time, im.p thy wings, let not thy minutes stay. 
But to a moment change the tedious day : 
" The day I 't will be an a^e before to.n:orrow : 
<^ An age, a death, a vast eternity 
«' Where we shall cold and past enjoyment lie." 

Ejuer Varanes and Arantkes. 

Var, Oh, Theodosiiis! 
T/ieoi Kal my brother here 1 
Why dost thou come to make my bliss run o'er ? 
«' What is there more to wish ? Fortune can End 
*< No fiaw in such a glut of happiness 

«' To let one misery in." Oh, my Varanes ! 

Thou that of lale didst seem to walk on clouds. 
Now give a loose, let go the slacken'd rems, 
Let us drive down the precipice of joy, 

As if that all the winds of heaven were for us. 

Far. My lord, I 'm glad to find the gale is turn'd, 

And give you jay of this auspicious fortune. 

Plou-h on your way with all your streamers out; 

With all your glorious flags and garlands nde 

Triumphant on and leave me to the waves, 

^® THE0D0SIU3* jifl 1!!^ 

The sands, the winds, the rocks, the sure destruaion 
And ready gulfs that gape to swallow me. 

Theo. It was thy Iiand that dr&w me from the grave 
Who had been dead by this time to ambition. 
To crowns, to titles, and my sliohted greatness i 
Rut still, as if eacli work of thine deserv'd 

The smile of Heaven thy Theodosius met 

With something dearer than his diadem, 

W^ith all that 's worth a wish, that 's worth a life; 

I met with that which made me leave the world. ' 

Var. And I, oh turn of chance! oh cursed fortune! 
Have lost at once all that could make me happy. 
*' Oh, ye too partial powers ! but now no more*: 
*< The gods, my dear my most lov'd Theodosius, 
«' Double all those joys that thou hast met upon thee! 
" For sure thou art m<;st worthy, worthy more 
*' Than Jove in all his prodigality 
*' Can e'er bestow in blessings on mankind." 
And oh ! methinks my soul is strangely mov'd, 
Takes it the more imkindly of her stars 

That thou and I cannot be blest together ; 
For 1 must leave thee, friend: this night* must leave 

Togo in doubtful search of what, perhaps, 

1 ne'er shall find, if so my cruel fate 

Has order'd it. Why then farev^eli for ever, 

For I shall never never see thee more. 

Theo, How sensible my tender soul is growix 

Of what you utter ! Oh. my gallant friend! 

Gh, brother! oh, Varanesl do not judge 


By what I speak, for sighs will interrupt me : 

Judge by my tears, judge by these siridl embraces. 

And by my last resolve ; tho' i have met 

With what in silence I so long ador'd ; 

Tho' in the rapture of protesting joys, 

I had set down to-morrow for my nuptials, 

*« And Atticus to-night prepares the temple," • 

Yet, my VaranesI I will rob my soul 

Of all her health, of my imperial bride. 

And wander with. thee in the search of that 

On which thy life depends— • 

Var. If this I suffer 
Conclude me then begotten of a hind, 
And bred in wilds: no, Thecdosius, no j 
1 charge ihee by our friendship, and conjure thCS 
By all the gods, to mention this no more. 
Perhaps, dear friend ! I shall be sooner here you exped or I myself imagine : 
\Vhat most i grieve is that I cannot wait 
To see your nuptials ; yet my soul is with you. 
And ail my adorations to your bride. 

Theo. What, my VaranesI will you be so cruel 
A$ not to see my bride berore you go? 
Or are you angry at your rival's charms, 
Who has already ravish'd half my heart. 
That once was all your own ? 

Var. You know I am disordered; 
My melancholy will not suit her blest condition. 

^ [Exit Theo, 

And the gods know since thcuj my Atheuais, 


Art fled from these sick eyes, all other women 
To my pali'd soul seem like tlie ghost of beauty. 
And haunt my memory with the loss of thee. 

Enter A then a is, Th eg do si us leading her, 
Theo. Behold, my lord, th' occasion of my joy. 
^-"^r. Oh, ye imnicrtal gods ! Aranthes ! oh I ' 
Look there, and wonder. Ha! is 't possible ? 

Athen. My lord, the emperor, says you are his friend ; 
He charges me to use my interest, 
And beg of you to stay at least so long 
As our espousals will be solemnizing; : 
I told him i was honour'd once to know you, 
But that so sligiitly as I could not warrant 

The grant of any thing that I should ask you . 

yar. Oh heaven and earth I oh Athenais ! why. 
Why dost thou use me thus ? Had 1 the world 

Thou know'st it should be thine— 

Athen. I know net that^ 

But yet, to make sure work, one half of it 
Is mine already, sir, without your i^iving. 
My lord, the prince is obstmate; his gloi-y 
Scorns to be mov'd by the weak breath of woman 5 
He is all hero, bent for higher views, 
Therefore 't is noble, sir, to let him go : 
If i>ot for him, my lord, yet for myself 
I mustenireat the favour to retire. [Exit AxhQu^&c. 
yar. Death and despair! confusion \he\\, and furies! 
Theo, " Heaven guardjhy health, and still preserve 
thy virtue i" 


What should this mean > I fear the consequence. 
For 'tis too phiin they know each other well. 

Far. Undone Aranthes! lost, undone for ever ! 
I see my doom, I read it with broad eyes. 
As plain as if I saw the book of fate: 
Yet I will muster all my spirits up, 
Digest my grief, swallow the rising passions ; 
Yes, I will stand the shock of all the gods 
Well as I can, and struggle for m,y life. 

T/ieo. You muse, my lord ; and if you '11 give me leave 
To judge your thoughts, they seem employ'd at present 
About my bride " I guess you know her too." 

far. His bride ! oh, gods I give me a moment's 
I must confess the sight of Athenais, 
Where I so little did expect to see her, 
So grae'd, and so adorn'd, did raise my wonder : 
But what exceeds all admiration is. 
That you should talk of making her your bride; 
*T is such a blind eifeCt of monstrous fortune. 
That tho' i Will remember you affirm'd it 
I cannot yet believe- — ^^ — 

T/zco. Then now believe me : 
By all the powers divine I will espouse her. 

Far. Hal I shall leap the bounds. Come, come, 
my lord. 
By all these powers you nam*d I say you must not. 

T/ieo, I say I will; and who shall bar my pleasure ? 
Yet more, I speak the judgn;ent of my soul, 
Weigh but with fortune, merit in tiie balance, 
And Aihenais loses by the marriage. 


^Var, Relentless fates! mciiicious cruel powers! 
Ch, for what crime dD you tlius nxk your creature I 
Sir, I must tell you this uakingly meanness 
Suits the profession of an anchorite well; 
i'ut in an Oriental emperor 
-'It gives offence; nor can you, without scandal. 
Without the notion of ar grov'ling spirit, 
Espouse Hie daughter of old Leontine, 
Whose utmost glory is to "ave been my tutor^ 

Th(o. Ke has so well acquitted that employment. 
Breeding you up to such a gallant height 
Cf full perfedion and imperial greatness, 
That cv'n for this respeft, if for no other, 
I will esteem him worthy vvltile I live. 

l^ar. My lord, you '11 pardon me a little freedom^ 
For I must boldly urge in such a cause — • 
Whoever flatters you, tho' ne'er so near 
Related to your blood, should be suspefted. 

Tfuo. If friendship would admit a cold suspicion. 
After what I have heard and seen to-day, 
Of all mankind I should suspeft Varanes. 

Var. He has stung m.e to the heart; my groans 
will choke me, 
Unless my struggling passion gets a vent. 

Out with it then 1 can no more dissemble 

Yes, yes, my lord I since you reduce me to 

The last necessity I must confess it ; 

I must avow my flame for Athenais: 

I am all fire, my passion eats me up. 

It grows incorp'ra'e v^'ith my flesh and blood : 

y/a in, TKEODOSIUS. ' 6 J 

My pangs redouble; now they cleave my heart! 

Oh, Athenais ! oh, Eudosia 1 Oh! 

<' Tho' plain as day I see my own destrudion, 

« Yet to my death, and oh, !et all the gods 

<' Bear witness ! still I swear I will adore thee 1" 

T/ieo. Alas, Varanes ! which of us two the heavens 
Have mark'd for death is yet above tke stars; 
But while we live let us preserve our friendship 
Sacred and just, as we have ever done. 
This only mean in two such hard extremes 
Remains for both : to-morrow you shall see her 
With all advantage in her own apartm.ent ; 
Take your own time ; say ail you can to gain herj 
If you can win her, lead her into Persia ; 
If nor, consent that I espouse her here. 

['ar. Still worse and worse ! Oh, Theodosius ! oh» 
I cannot speak for sighs ; my death is seal'd 
By his last sweetness : had you been less good 
I might liave hop'd ; but now my doom 's at hand. 
Go then and take her, take her to the temple; 
The gods too give you joy i Oh, Athenais I 
Why does thy image mock my foolish sorrow ? 
Oh, Theodosius ! do not see my tears : 
Away and leave me; leave me to the grave. 

Tkeo. Farewell ; let 's leave tlie issue to the heavens s 
I will prepare your way with all that honour 
Can urge in your behalf, tho' to my ruin. [Exit Theo, 

Var. Oh, I could tear my limbs and eat my flesh \ 
Fool that I was, fond, proud, vain-glorious fool ! 
Damn'd be all courts, and trebly damn'd ambition ! 


Blasted be tliy remembrance ! curses on thee! 
And plagues on plagiies fall on tiiose fools that seek 

Aran. Have comfort, sir— — . 

Var. Away and leave me villain ! 
Traitor, who wrought me first to my destru(5lion! — 
Yet stay and help, help me to curse my pride, 
Help me to wish that I had ne'er been royal, 
That I had never heard the name of Cyrus, 
*' That my first brawl in court had been my last.'* 
Oh that I had been born some happy swain. 
And never known a life so great, so vain I 
Where I extremes might not be forc'd to choose, 
And blest with some mean wife no crown could lose. 
Where the dear partner of mv little state, 
With all her smiling offspring at the gate, 
Blessing my labours might my coming wait; 
V/here in our humble beds all ?afe might lie, 
And not in cursed court for glory die [Exeunt. 


*' Hail to the myntk shade j 

" All hail to the nymphs of the fields ; 

** Kings would not here invade 

*' Those pleasures that virtue yields* 

** Chor. Beauty here opens her arms^ 

*' To soften the languishing mind, 
<* And Phillis unlocks her charms : 
«' Ahf Phillis' J xjuhy so kind? 


<* PkilHs, thou soul ofiovCj 

** Thou joy of the na'g/i'' 6 rtrg swains } 
*' Phillis that crowns the great., 

*' And Phillis that gilds the plains : 

« Chor. Phillis, that ne'er had the skill 

*' To painty and to patchy and bejine i 
" Ttt Piiillis whose eyes can hill, 
*' Whom nature hath made divine : 

** Phillis, whose charming song 

*' Makes labour and pains a delight : 

•' Phillisy that makes the day young , 
** And shortens the live-long night: 

<' Chor. PJiillis, whose lips like May , 

" Still laughs at the sweets they brings 
** Where love never knows decay y 
*' But sets with eternal spnng.'' 


Enter Marcian and Lucius, at a distance, 

The general of the Oriental arn:ies 
Was a coinmisaion Idrge as fate could give: 
'TJs goHe. " VVliy, wliat care U Oh, Fortune! 

Fortune I 
** Thou laughing empress of tliis busy world, 


*' Marcian defies thee riow" 

Why what a thing is a discarded favourite ! 

*' He who but now, tlio' longing to retire, 

** Could not for busy waiters be alone, 

*' Throng'd in his chamber, haunted to his closet 

** With a full crowd and an eternal court !" 

When once the favour of his prince is turn'd, 

Shun'd as a ghost the clouded man appears. 

And all the gaudy worshippers forsake him. 

" So fares it now v/ith me j where'er I come, 

" As if I were another Catiline j 

** The Courtiers rise, and no man will sit near me : 

^' As if the plague were on me all men fly me." 

Oh, Lucius! Lucius ! if ihou leav'st me too 

I think, I think, I could not bear it. 

But like a slave my spirit, broke with sufF'ring, 

Should on these coward knees fall down, and beg 

Once to be great again-——— 

Lzic. Forbid it, Heaven ! 
That e'er the noble Marcian condescend 
To ask of any but th' immortal gods I 
Nay, I vow, if yet your spirit dare. 
Spite of the court you shall be great as Caesar. 

*' Mar. No, Lucius, no ; the gods repel that humour, 
*^ Yet since we are alone, and must ere long 
** Leave this bad court, let us like veterans 
*' Speak out — Thca say'st, alas ! as great as Csesar; 
*' But where's his greatness ? where is his ambition ? 
*' If any sparks of virtue yet remain 
* In this poor figure of the P^.omin glory ; 

^g ;.f'^ TtlEODOSluS. ^0 

<' I say if any be, how dim they shine 
<' Compared with what his great forefathers were ! 
" Howshculd he lighten then or awe the v^orld 
<' Whose soul in courts is but a lambent fire f 
«' And scarce, oh. Rome I a glowworm in the field, 
<' Sofr, young, religious— godlike qualities 1 
<« For one that should recover the lost empire, 
«* And wsde thro' seas of blood and walk o'er moun- 
«' Of slaughtered bodies to immortal honour." 
Luc. Poor heart ! he pin'd a while ago for love- 
Mar. And for his mistress vow'd to leave the world ; 
But some new chance it seems has chang'd his mind. 
A marriage! bat to whom, or whence she came. 
None knows ; but yet a marriage is proclaim'd, 
Pageants prepar'd, the arches are adorn'd, 
*' The statues crown'd, the Hippodrome does groan 
" Beneatli the burden of the mounted warriors ;" 
The theatre is opeu'd too, where he 
And the hot Persian mean to aft their follies. 
Godsl gods ! is this the image of our Caesars ? 
Is this the model of our Romulus ? 
Oh whv so poorly have you stamp'd Rome's glory ! 
*' Not Rome's but vour's— Is this man fit to bear it, 
*' This waxen portraiture of majesty, 
*' Which cv'ry warmer passion does melr down, 
" And makes him fonder than a woman's longing t" 

Luc, Thus much I know to tlie eternal shame 
Of tlie imperial blood ; this upstart empress, 
Tills fine nev.- queen, is sprung from abject parent?, 


Nay, basely born : but that's all one to him ; 
He likes and loves, and therefore marries her. 

Mar. Shall I not speak, shall I not tell him of it ? 
I feel this big-svvol'n throbbing Roman spirit 
Will burst unless I utter what I ought. 

jE"«/fr PuLCHERiA with a Paper in her handy awt/JuLlA. 

Mat, Pulcheria here 1 why she's the scourge of 
Marcian -, 
I tremble too whenever she approaches, 
*<= And my heart dances an unusual measure: 
*' Spite of myself I blush, and cannot stir 
*' While she is here" — What, Lucius, can tliis mean ? 
«< 'Tis said Calpburnia had the heart of Caesar, 
** Augustus doted on tlie subtile Livia, 
«' Why then should not I worship that fair angel ? 
<' Oh ! didst thou mark her when her fury lighten'd? 
«' Sheseem'd all goddess, nay, her frowns became her: 
*' There was a beauty in her very wildness. 
«' Were I a man born great as our fir^t founder, 
** Sprung from the blood divine — but I am cast 
*' Beyond all possibility of hope." 

Puick. Come hither Marcian, read this paper o'er. 
And mark the strange negleft of Theodosius : 
He signs whatever I bring ; perhaps you 'ave heard 
To-morrow he intends to wed a maid of Athens, 
New-made a Christian, and nevv-nam'd Eudosia, 
Whom he more dearly prizes than his empire; 
Yet in this paper lie hath set his hand, 
And seal'd it too with the imperial signet, 
That siie sjiail lose her head to-niorrow-iiiorning. 

^^ ly^ THEODOSIUS. 7^ 

Mar. 'Tis not for me to judge; yet this seems 

PiM. I know he rather would commit a murder 
On his own person than permit a vein 
Of her to bleed; yet, Marcian, what might foLovv 
1 f I were envious of this virgin's honour 
By his rash passing whatsoe'er I offer 
Without a view-Ha I but I had forgot : 
Juha, let's haste from this infedious person — — 
I had forgot that Marcian was a traitor : 
*' Yet bv tbe powers divine 1 swear 'r-s pity 
*' Tliat one so form'd bv nature for all honour, 
<^ All titles, greatness, dignities imperial, 
" The noblest person, and the bravest courage. 
*^ Should not be honest. Julia, is 't not pity i" 
Oh, Marcian! Marcian 1 i could weep to thmk 
Virtue should lose itself as thine has done, 
Re^^ent, rash man I if yet 't is not too late, 
And mend thy errors ; so farewell for ever. ^ 

[Exeunt Pulch.^ G7ia J aha. 
Mar. Farewell for ever! no, madam, ere I go 
I am resolv'd to speak, and you shall hear me ; 
Then if you plea.e take oif this traitor's head : 
End mv commission and my life together. 

Luc. Perhaps you 'li doubt of what 1 'm gouig to say : 
But by your life my lord I think 't is true ; 
Pukher,a loves this traitor : - Did you mark aer t 
«' At lirst she had forgot your banishuient ; 
- Makes you her counsellor, and telis her secrets 
*^ As to a friend j nay, leaves them m your hand, 

/■^ TKE0D0SIU5. 'A&I^. 

" And says 'f is pity that you are not honest, 
*' With. such descrptlon oFyour gallantry 
*' As none but love could make; then taking leave, 
/' Thro' the dark lashes of her darting eyes ° 
*' Methought she shot her soul at ev'ry glance, 
" Still looking back, as if she had a mind 
*' Thatyoushould know shelefr her heartbehindher.'* 

Mar. Alas ! thou dost not know her, nor do F, 
Korean the wit of all mankind conceive her. 
But let 's away. This paper is of use. 

Li/c I guess your purpose : 
He is a boy, and as a boy you '11 use him— 
There is no other way. 

Mar. Yes, if he be not 
Quite dead with sleep, for ever lost to honour, 
Marcian with this shall rou-e him. Oh, my Lucius 1 
IV'Iethinks the ghosts of the great Theodosius 
And thnnd'ring Constanline appear before me; 
They charge me as a soldier to chastise him, 
To lash him with keen words from lazy love, 
And show him how (hey trod the paths of l.cnour. [Ex, 


ThloDOSIus /jif7g on a Couch, with tvjo Boys drat h'h 
Cvpids nnging to him as he sUeps, 


** Happy day! ah, happy day ! 
*' 'ihati^r^sar'sbiamsdidjirstdiyplayi '■ 

'J^liy, THEODOSIUS. 73 

« So peaceful zoas the happy day, 
it The gods ikemselves did all look down 
« The royal {"/ant's birth to crown, 
« So pleas'd they scarce did on the guilty frozvn, 

" Happy day ! ah, happy day! 
« And oh, thrice happy hour I 
«« That made such goodness master of such power ; 
« For thus the gods declare to men, 
<* No day like this shall ever come again^ 

Enter Marcian zovhan Order, 
« Theo. Ha ! what rash thing art thou who set's so 

« A value on thy hfe thus to presiime 

" Against the fatal orders I have given, 

*' Thus to entrench on Caesar's solitude, 

<< And uriic me to thy ruin ? 
*' Mar. Mighty Caesar! 

<' I have transgressed, and for my pardon bow 

<' To thee as to the gods when T offend; 

<« Nor can I doubt your mercy, when you know 

*' The natiu-e of my crime. I am conimission'd 

«' From all the earth to give thee thanks and praises, 

*' Thou darling of mankind ! whose conqu'ring arms 

^« Already drown the glory of great Julius, 

<< Whose deeper reach in laws and policy 

" Makes wise Augustus envy thee in heaven. 

*' What mean the fates by such prodigious virtue ? 

t' When scarce the manly down yet shades thy tace, 

Af- With conquest thus to over- run the world, 


*' And make barbarians tremble f Ob, ye gods! 
" Sbeuld destiny now end thee in thy bloom j 
*' Methinks I see thee mourn'd above the loss 
** Of lov'd Germanicus, tliy fimerals, 
*' Like his, are solemniz'd with tears and blood. 

*' T.'?eo. How, Marcian I 
*' Mar. Yes, the raging multitude, 
*' Like torrents, set no bound to their mad grief, 
*' Shavetheir wives' heads,andtear offtheirown hair; 
*' VVith wild de,spair they bring their infants out 
*' To brawl their parent's sorrow in the streets : 
*' Trade is no more, all courts of justice stopp'd ; 
" With stones they dash the windows of their temples, 
*' Pull down their altars, break their household gods, 
** And still the universal groan is thif, 
*' Cons'antinopk'siost, our empire's ruin'd: 
**'Smce he is gone, that father of his country, 
*' Since he is dead, oh, life \ where is thy pleasure ? 
*' Oh, Rome ! oh, conqtier'd world 1 where is thy glory ? 

*' 7/ieo. I know thee well, thy custom and thy 
manners ; 
** Thou dost upbraid me j but no more of this, 
*' Not for thy life— 

*' Mar. What 's life without my honour? 
" Con id you transform yourself into a Gorgon, 
" Or make that beaidless face like Jupiter's, 
*' 1 would be heard in spite of all your thunder. 
•' Oh, power of guilt! you fear to stand the test 
*< Which virtue brings; like sores your vices shake 
*< Before this Roman healer : but, by the gods. 

A3 IT^. THEODOSius. 75. 

*' Before I go I'll rip the malady, 

" And let the venom flow before your ej-es: 

*' This is a debt to the great Theodosius, 

*' The granfather of your illustrious blood, 

*' And then farewell forev^er. 

*' Tkeo. Presuniing Marcian ! 
*' What canst thou urge against my innocence ? 
*' Tliro' the wiiole course of all my harmless youth, 
" Ev'n to this hour, I cannot call to mind 
*' One wicked act which I have done to &hame me. 

*' Mar. This may be true; yet if you give the sway 
** To other hands, and your poor subjeils sutler, 
*' Your negligence to them is as the cause. 
*' Oh, Theodosius ! credit nie who knows 
*' The world, and hear our soldiers censure kings. 
*' In aftertimes, if thus you should go on, 
** Your memory by warriors will be scorn'd, 
** As Nero or as C^iliguia loath'd ; 
" They will despise your sloth and backward ease 
*< More than they hate the others' cruelty. 
*' And what a thing, ye gods, is scorn or pity ! 
*' Heap on me, Heaven, the hate of ail mankind, 
** Load me with malice, envy, detestation, 
*' Let me be horrid to all apprehension, 
** And the world shun me, so I 'scape but scorn. 

** 'thto. Pr'ythee no more. 

*' Mar. Nay, when the ]e_;ions r.iake comparisons, 
" And say tlius cruel Nero once resolv'd 
*' On Galba's insurreftion tor revenge, 
** To give all France- as pluiid .r 10 ihs arms. 

y6 THEODOSIUS. 'yldlF'm. 

*' To poison the whole senate at a feast, 

*' To burn the city, turn the wild beasts out, 

«' BearSj lions, tigers, on the multitude, 

*' That so obstruding those that quench'd the fire 

*' He might at once destroy rebellious Rome. 

" Theo. Oh, cruelty 1 why tell'st thou me of this ? 
*' An) I of such a bloody, barb'rous temper ? }. 

" J^.Iar. Yet some will say this show'd he had a spirit^ - 
*' However fierce, avenging, and pernicious— 
** That favour'd of a Roman ; but for you, 
** What can your partial sycophants invent, 
*' To make you room among the emperors, 
*' Whose utmost is the smallest part of Nero, 
*' A petty player — one who can a 51 the hero, 
** And never be one. Oh, ye immortal gods J 
*' Is this the old Caesarian majesty ? 
** Now in the name of our great Romulus 
«■( Why sing you not and fiddle too as he did ? 
*' Why have ye not, like Nero, a phenascus, 
" One to take care of your celestial voice : 
** Lie on your back, my lord, and on your stomach 
** Lay a thin plate of lead — abstain from fruits; 
** And when the business of the stage is done 
" Retire with your loose friends to costly banquets 5 
*' Whfle the lean army groans upon the ground. 
*' Thco. Leave m.e, I say, lest I chastise thee : 

** Hence, begone, I say 

*' Mar. Not 'dll you have heard me out- — 
*' Build too, like him, a palace lin'd with gold, 
<* As long and large as that to the Esquilinc: 


** Enclose a pool too in it like the sea, 

** And at the empire's cost let navies meet; 

** Adorn your starry chambers too with gems; 

<* Contrive the plated ceilings to turn round, 

*^ With pipes to cast ambrosian oils upon you; 

*' Consume with this prodigious vanity 

** In mere perfumes and odorous distillations 

'* Of sesterces at once four hundred millions ; 

*' Let naked virgins wait you at your table, 

** And wanton Cupids dance and clap their wings; 

** No matter what becomes of the poor soldiers, 

" So they perform the drudgery they are fit for ; 

** Why, let 'em starve for want of their arrears, 

'* Drop as they go, and lie, like dogs, in ditches. 

*' TAeo. Come, you are a traitor 

** Mar, Go to, you are a boy — 
*' Or by the gods— 

*' T/ieo. Tf arrogance like this, 
*^ And to the emperor's face, should'scape unpunish'd 
** I '11 write myself a coward — Die then a villain, 
** A death too glorious for so bad a man, 
** By Theodosius* hand. 

[Marcian disarms him, but is wounded, 

** Mar, Now, sir, where are you ? 
** What in the name of ail our Roman spirits 
** Now charms my hand from giving thee thy fate? 
" Has he not cut me off from all my honours — 
** Torn my commissions, sham'd me to the earth, 
*' Banish'd the court, a vagabond for ever? 

" Do not tbe soldiers hourly ask it from mc, 

78 THEopo^ius. Aa If^, 

<* Sigh their own wrongs, and bjsg me to revenge'em I 
<* What hinders now but that I mount the throne 
** And make to that this purple youth my footstool ; 
'* The armies court me and my country's cause ; 
** The injuries of Rome and Greece persuade me. 
*' bhiew but this Roman biood which he has drawn, 
<• They '11 make me emperor whether I will or no. 
*< Did not for less tlian this the latter Brutus, 
*' Because he thought Rome wrong'd, in person head 
<• Against his, friend a black conspiracy, 
*' And stab the majesty of ail the yvorld ? 

" Th(o. A(ft as you please, I ani within your power. 

" Mar. Did not the former Brutus for the crime 
" Of Septus, drive old Tarquin from his kingdom i 
*< And shall this prince too, by permi'ting others 
*« To aft their wicked will and lawless pleasures, 
** Ravish from the empire it's dearh<^alth, . 
<« Well-being, happiness, and ancient ^lury, 
*' Goon in this dishonourable rest ? 
«♦ Shall he, I say, dream on while the starv'd troops 
'*• Lie cold and waking in the winter camp ; 
** And like pin'd birds for want of sustenance 
*» Feed on the haws and berries of the field ? 
«♦ Oh, temper, temper iT)e, yc gracious gods I 
** Give to my hand forbearance, to my heart 
«♦ Il*3 constant loyalty — I would but shake him, 
** Rouse him a little from this death of honour, 
** And show him what he should be. [Jsidef 

*• TTieo. You accuse me 
" As if I were some monster most unheard of, 


*» First as the ruin of the army, then 
** Of taking your commission; but, by heaven 
** I swear, oh, Martian! this I never did, 
*♦ Nur e'er intended it ; nor say I this 
•• To altei* thy stern Usage; for with what 
'* Thou 'st said or done, and brought to my remem- 
•* I grow already weary of my life. 
:._ *♦ Mar. My lord, 1 take your word — Vou do not 

** Thewoundswhichragewithinyourcountry'sbowelsg 
*' Tht horrid usage of the suif'ringsuldier; 
*♦ But why will not our Theodosius know i 
** !f you entrust the government to others 
. ** That a<5l these crimeswho but yourself 's to blame ? 
*' Be witnesses, ye gods! of my pl.iin dealings 
*♦ Of Marcian's honesty, howe'er degraded. 
" I thank you. for my banishment ; but, alas I 
^* My loss is little to what soon will follow ; 
*' Refle(ft but on yourself and your own j(;ys; 
** Let not this lethargy for ever hold you. 
•' 'T was rumour'd thro' the city that you lov'dj 
*' That your espousals should be solemniz'd; 
** When on a sudden here you send your orders 
" That this bright favourite, the lov'd Eudosii j 
** Should lose her head. 

*' Tkeo. Oh, heaven and earth I what say'st thou i 
*< That I have seal'd the death of my Hudosia? 

*» Mar, 'Tis yoi:ro\vn hand a:nd signet: yet I swear, 
•* Tho' you have given to female hands the sway, 


«< And therefore I as well as the whole army 

<* For ever ought to curse all womankind ; 

«< Yet when the virgin came, as she was doom'd, 

*< And on the scaffold, for that purpose rais'd, 

*' Without the walls appear'd before the army- 

" TAeo. What.! on a scaffold? Hal before the 

army ? 
" Mar. How quickly was the tide of fury turn'd 
" To soft compassion and relenting tears I but whea 

the axe 
" Sever'd the brightest beauty of the earth 
*' From that fair body; had you heard the groan, 
" Which like a peal of distant thunder ran 
*< Thro' all the armM host, you would have thought, 
" By the immediate darkness that fell round us, 
*< Whole nature was concern'd at such a suffering, 
** And all the gods were angry. 

" neo. Oh, Pulcheria 1 
" Cruel, ambitious sister, this must be 
" Thy doing! Oh, support me, noble Marcian! 
*' Now, now's the time, if thou dar'st strike: behold 
*' I offer thee my breast ; with my last breath 
*' I 'II thank thee too if now thou draw'st my blood. 
'* Were I to live, thy counsel should direcl: me; 

<' But 't is too late . [He swoons. 

" Afar, He faints 1 What, hoa there, Lucius 1 

Enter Lucius. 

<« My lord the emperor, Eudosia lives! 

" She '3 here, or will be in a minute— moment j 

ja IV, THEODOSIl/S. «! 

" Quick as a thought she calls you to the temple. 

** Oh, Lucius! help I'avegonetoo far— But see, 

** He breathes again — Eudosia has awak'd him. 

•* TAeo. Did you hot name Eudosia i 

" Afar. Yes, she lives ; 
*' I did but feign the story of her death 
<• To find how hear you placM her to your heart! 
•* And may the gods rain all their plagues upon me 
<* If ever I rebuke you thus again : 
" Yet *t is most certain that you sign'd her deatli, 
" Not knowing what the wise Pulcheria offer'd, 
«* Who left it in ray hand to startle you ; 
•* But by my life and fame I did not think 
♦* It would have touch'd your life. Oh, pardon me, 
<* Dear prince! my lord, my emperor, ro)al 

master I 
<* Droop not because I utterM some rash words, 
** And was a madman — By ih' immortal gods 
<* I love you as my soul : whatever I said 
*« My thoughts were otherwise ; believe these tears, 
»* Which do not use to flow, all shall be well; 
** I swear that there are seeds in that sweet temper 
*♦ T' atone for all the crimes in this bad age. 

*• TAeo, I thank thee — first for my Eudosia'a life : 
** What but my love could have call'd back that life 
<* Which thou hast made me hate ? And oh, me- 

** *Twas hard, dear Marcianl very hard from thee 
" From him I ever rev'renc'd as my father, 
«» To hear so harsh a message— But no more; 
H iij 


*' We 're friends-thy hand— Nay, if thou wilt not 


" And let me fold my arms about thy neck, 
" I'll not believe thv love— In this forgive me: 
" F.rst let me wed Eudosia and we '11 out; 
*' We will, my general, and make amends 
*' For all that '5 past— Glory and arms ye call I 
*' And Marcian leads me on— 

** Mar. Let her not rest then 

'' Espouse her straight j 1 '11 strike you at a heat : 

*' May thisgreat humour get large growth within you, 

** And beencourag'd by th' embold'ning gods. 

*' Oh what a sight will this be to the soldier, 

" To see me bring you dress'd in shining-armour. 

'* To head the shouting squadrons I— Oh, ye gods 

<* Methinks I hear the echoing cries of joy, 

*' The sound of trumpets and the beat of drums— 

<' I see each starving soldier bound from earth, 

" As if som.egod by miracle had rais'd him, 

" And with beholding you grow fat again. 

<' Nothing but gazing eyes and op'ning mouths, 

« Cheeks red with joy and lifted hands about you ; 

*' Some wiping the glad tear that trickle down 

** With broken los, and with sobbing raptures 

** Crying, to arms, he 's come, our emperor's come 

*' To win the v/orld !— Why, is not this better 

** Than lolhng in a lady's lap, and sleeping, 

*' Fasting or praying ? Come, come, you shall be 

merry ; 
<* And for Eudosia she is your's already : 
** Marcian has said it, sir; she shall be youy*s. 



" Theo. Oh, Marcian ; oh, my brother, father, all! 
« Thou best of friends, most faithful counsellor 
*' i '11 find a match for thee too ere I rest, 
*' To make thee love me ; for when thou art with me 
" I'm strong and well, but when thou'rt gone I 'm 

Enter Athenais meeting Theodosius. 

TJieo. Alas, Eudosia ! tell me what to say ; 
For my full heart can scarce bring forth a word 
Of that which I have sworn to see perform'd. 

Athen. I 'm perfectly obedient to your pleasurte# 

Tkto, Well then, 1 come to tell thee that Varanes 
Of all mankind is nearest to my heart : 
I love him, dear Eudosia I and to prove 
That love on trial all my blood 's too little : 
Ev'n thee, if I were sure to die this moment, r 

(As Heaven alone can tell how far my fate < • • 

Is off) oh ! thou my soul's most tender joy. 
With my last breath I would bequeath him thee. 

Athen. Then you are pleas'd, my lord, to yield me 
to him. 

Theo. No, my Eudosia, no; I will not yield thee. 
While I liave life ; for worlds I will not yield thee : 
Yet thus far I 'ra engag'd to let thee know- 
He loves thee, Athenais, more than ever; 
He languishes, despairs, and dies, like me, 
And I have pass'd my word that he shall see thee. 

Theo. Ah, sir! what have you done against yourbelf 

And me ! 


H THEODOstus. Aa IF, 

<« Why will you trust me, who am now afraid 
** To tnibt myself? — why do you leave mt naked 
*< To an assault, who had made proof my virtue 
" With this sure guard never to see him morei" 
For oh I with trembling agonies I speak it, 
I cannot see a prince whom once I lov'd 
Bath'd in his grief, and gasping at my feet 
** In all the violent trances of despair," 
Without a sorrow thatperhaps may end me. 

Theo. Oh, ye severer powers i too cruel fate I 
Did ever love tread such a maze before \ 
Yet, Alhenais, still I Jrust thy virtue; 
But if thy bleeding heart cannot refrain, 
Give, give thyself away; yet still remember 

That moment Theodosius is no more- 

[Exit Theo. 

Alien, Now glory, now, if ever thou did'st work 
In woman's mind assist me — •* Oh, my heart! 
*' Why dost thou throb as if thou wert a breaking ? 
*' Down, down, I say j think on thy injuries, 
** Thy wrongs, thy wrongs— 'T is well myeyesaredry» 
*' And all within my bosom now is still." 

Enter Varakes leaning en Aranthes. 

Ha! is this he! or is't Varanes* ghost ? 
He looks as if he had bespoke his grave. 
Trembling and pale. I must not dare to view him; 
For oh I 1 feel his melancholy here. 
And fear I shall too soon partake his sickness. 
I ar. Thus to the angry gods offending nwrtals. 


Made sensible by some severe affliaion 

How all their crimes are register'd in Heaven, 

« In that nice court where no rash words escapes, 

« But ev'n extravagant thouglKs are all set down;" 

Thus the poor penitents with fear approach 

The rev'reqd shrines, and thus for mercy bow; ^Kneels. 

Thus melting too they wash the hallow'd earth, 

And groan to be forgiven 

Oh empress! oh Eudosia ! such-you 're now: 
These are your titles, and I must not dare 
Ever to call thee Athenais more. 

Athen. Rise, rise, my lord, let me entreat you rise ; 
I will not hear you in that humble posture; 

Rise, or I must withdraw The world will blush 

For you and me, should it behold a prmce 
Sprung from immortal Cyrus on his knees 
Before the daughter of a poor philosopher. 

p-ar, 'Tis just, ye righteous gods I my doom is 
Nor will I strive to deprecate her anger. 
If possible I '11 aggravate my crimes, 
That she may rage 'till she has broke my heart ; 
'Tis all I now desire—" and let the gods, 
*' Those cruel gods that join to my undoing, 
«« Be witnesses, to this unnatural wish," 
Is to fall dead without a groan before her. 

Jthen, Oh, ye known sounds! but I must steel my 
soul. [--^^"ff- 

« Methinks these robes, my Delia, are too heavy." 
Far^ Not worth a word, a look, or one regard ! 

^^ THE6DtiSIl?«. y^aiV, 

«♦ Is then the nature of liiy fault so heinous ; 
*' That when I come to take my eternal leave 
** Yoa 'li not vouchsafe to view me ? This is scorn 
" Which the fair soul of gentle Athenais 

" Would ne'er have harbour'd- 

•* Oh ! for the sake of him whom you ere long 
*' Shall hold as fast as now your wishes forth Yam** 
Give me a patient hearing; for however 
I talk of death, and seem to loathe my life, 
1 would deliberate with my fate a while, 
With snatching glances eye thee to the lastj 
Pause o'er a loss like that of Athenais, 
And parley with my ruin. 
Athm. Speak, my lord ; 
To hear you is the emperor's command \ 
And for that cause I rfeadily obey. 

Var. The emperor, thfe emperor's command I 
Ahd for that cause she readily obeys I 
I thank you, madam, that on any terms 

You condescerid to hear me 

Know then, Eudosia, ah, rather let mc call thee 

By the lov'd name of Athenais still I 

*' That name which I so often have invok'd, 

** And which was once auspicious to my vows, 

" So oft at midnight sigh'd among the groves, 

** The river's nmrmur, and the echo's burden, 

** Which every bird could sing and wind did bear; 

** By that dear name I make this protestation, 

" P>y all that's good on earth or bless'd in Heaven," 

1 swear I love thee more, far more, than ever j 


With conscious blushes too, here help me gods! 
Help me to tell her, tho' to my confusion 
And everlasting shame, yet 1 must tell her, 
1 lay the Persian crown before her feet. 

AlAen. My lord, I thank you, and to express tho!;2 

As nobly as you offer 'em I return 
The gift you make; nor will I now upbraid you 
With the example of the emperor ; 
Not but 1 know 't is that th^t draws you on 
Thus to descend beneath your majesty 
And swell the daughter of a poor philosopher 
With hopes of being great. 

f^ar. Ah, madam I ah I you wrong me : ^y the 


I had repented ere I knew the emperor 

Atken. You find, perhaps too late, that Athenais, 
However slighted for her birth and fortune; 
Has something in her person and her virtue 
Worth the regard ot emperors themselves; 
And to return the compliment you gave 
My father, Leontine, that poor philosopher, 
W' hose utmost glory is to 'ave been your tutor, 
I here protes% by virtue and by glory, 
I swear by heaven and all the powers divine, 
Th' abandon'd daughter of that poor old man 
Shall ne'er be seated on the throne of Cyrus. 

Far. Oh, death to all my hopes! what hast thou 



To turn me wild r Ah, cursed throne of Cyrus I 
Would thou had'st been o'erturn'd and laid in dust. 
His crown too thunderstruck, my father, all 
The Persian race, like poor Darius ruin'd. 
Blotted, and sv»^ept for ever from the world, 

When first ambition blasted thy remembrance . 

AtJien. Oh, Heaven ! I had forgot the base affront 
Offer'd by this proud man ; a wrong so great 
It is remov'd beyond all hope of mercy : 
He had design'd to bribe my father's virtue. 

And by unlawful means 

Fly from my sight, lest I become a fury. 

And break those rules of temp'rance I propos'd : 

Fly, fly, Varanes! fly this sacred place, 

"Where virtue and religion are profess'd ; 

** This city will not harbour infidels, 

** Traitors to chastity, licentious princes : 

<« Begone I say ; thou canst not here be safe :'* 

Fly to imperial libertineb abroad; 

In foreign courts thou 'It find a tiiousand beauties 

That will comply for gold — for gold they '11 weep, 

For gold be fond as Athenais was, 

And charm thee still as if they lov'd indeed. 

*' Thou 'It find enough companions too for riot, 

<« Luxuriant all, and royal as thyself; 

** Tho' (by loud vices should resound to heaven. 

** Art ttiou not gone )et ? 

p^ar. "No, I an:i charm'd to hear you, 
<* Oh I from my soul 1 do confess myself 


«< The very blot of honour — I am more black 

«< Than tliou in all thy heat of just revenge, 

•« With all thy glorious eloquence can make me." 

Athtn. Away, Varanes ! 

J^ar. Yes, madam, I am going——— 
Nay, by the gods I do not ask thee pardon, 
Nor while I live will I implore thy mercy ; 
But when I 'm dead, if as thou dosi return 
With happy Theodosius from the temple — 
If as thou goest in triumph through the streets. 
Thou chance to meet the cold Varanes there, 
Borne by his friends to his eternal home. 
Stop then, oh Athenais ! and behold me; 
Say as thou hang'st'about the emp'ror'sneck, 
Alas 1 my lord! this siglit is worth our pity. 
If to those pitying words thou add a fear, 

Or give one parting groan if possible. 

If the good gods will grant my soul the freedom; 
I '11 leave my shroud, and wake from death to thank 

Athm. He shakes my resolution from the bottom; 
My bleeding heart too speaks in his behalf. 
And says my virtue has been too severe. 

Var. Farewell, oh empress ! no Athenais now ; 
I will not call thee by that tender name, 
Since cold despair begins to freeze my bosom, 
And all my pow'rs are now resolv'd on death. 
*' 'Tis said that from my youth 1 have been rash, 
*' Choleric and hot ; but let the gods now judge 
** By my ]a>t wish if ever patient man 


«< Did calmly bear so great a loss as mine ? 
Since 't is so dooniM by fate you must be wedded 
For your own peace, when 1 am laid inearth. 
Forget that e'er Varanes had a being ; 
Turn all your soul to Theodosius' bosom : 
Continue^ gods 1 their days, and maice them long; 
Lucina wait upon their fruitful Hymen, 
And many children beauteous as the mother. 
And pious as the father, make 'era smile, 

Athcn. Oh, Heav'nsI 

l^ar. Farewell 1 Ml trouble you no more ; 

The malady that *s lodg'd within grows stronger j 
I feel the sliock of my approaching fate ; 
My heart too trembles at his distant march ; 
Nor can I utter more if you should ask me. 
Thy arm Aranthes— Oh, farewell for everl 

Athen. Varanes, stay; and ere you go forever 
Let me imfold my heart. 

yar. O AthenaisI 
What further cruelty hast thou in store 
Tq add to what I suffer i 

Athen. Since 't is doomM 
That we must part, let 's part as lovers shouM, 
As those that have iov'd long and loved well. 

/'izr. Art thou so good, oh! Athenais, oh! 

Atkcn, First, from my soul I pity and forgive you ; 
1 pardon you that hasty little error. 
Which yet has been the cause of both our ruins : 
And let this sorrow witness for my heart 
How eagerly I wish it had not been ; 

^aifr, TftEODOsrus. §* 

And since I cannot keep it, take it all ; 

Take all the love, oh, prince ! I ever bore you ; 

•» Or if 't is possible I'll give you more : 

•• Your noble carriage forces this confession, 

*' I rage, I burn, 1 bleed, 1 die, for love! 

** 1 am distrafied with this world of passion. 

" Var. Godst cruel godsl take notice 1 forgive you^ 

•• Aiken. Alas I my lord, my weaker tender sex 
•4 Has not your manly patience, cannot curb 
« Thiifary iirj theretore 1 let it loose j 
*' Spite of ifty rigid duty I will speak 
•< With all the clearness of a dying lover.'* 

Farewell, most lovely and most lov'd of men 

Why comes this dying paleness o'er thy face ? 
Why wander thus thy eyes? why dost thou bend, 
As if the iatal weight of death were on thee ^ 

yar. Speak yet a little more ; for by the gods. 
And as I prize those blessed happy moments, . 
I swear, oh Athenaisl all is well : 
Oh, never better I 

j^/un. I doubt thee, dearVaranest 
Yet if thou dy'st 1 shall not long be from thee. 
Once more farewell, and take these last embraces. 
Oh, I could crush him to my heart! Farewell j 
And as a dying pledge of my last love 
Take this, which all thy prayers could never charni. 
What have 1 done? Oh ! lead me, lead me, Delia! 
Ah, prince, farewell! angels proteft and guard thee! 

Far. Turnback, oh, Athenaisl and behold me; 
Hear my last words, and then farewell for ever i 


Thou hast undone me more by this confession : 
You say, you swear, you love me more than ever } 
Yet I must see you married to another: 
Can there be any plague or hell like this ! 
Oh Athenais 1 whither shall I turn me ? 
You 'ave brought me back to life; but oh! what life? 
To a life more terrible than thousand deaths. 
Like one that had been bury'd in a trance 
With racking starts he wakes, and gazes round, 
Forc'd by despair his whirling limbs to wound, 
** And bellow like a spirit underground,'* 
Still urg'd by fate to turn, to toss and rave. 
Tormented, dash'd, and broken, in the grave. 



Athenais dressed in Imperial Robesy and crowrCd\ a 
Table with a Bowl of Poison , V>^Llk attending, 

A MIDNIGHT marriage I Must I to the temple 
Thus at the murd'rer's hour? 'Tis wondrous strangel 
But so, thou say'st, my father has commanded. 
And that *s a mighty reason. 

Delia. The emp'ror, in compassion to the prince. 
Who would perhaps fly to extravagance 
If he in public should resolve to espouse you, 
Contrlv'd by this close marriage to deceive him. 


Alheti *Tis well ; retire. 
•* Go fetch thy lute, and sing those lines I gave thee.'* 

[Exit Delia. 
So, now I am alone; yet my soul shakes; 
For where this dreadful draught may carry me 
The Heavens can only tell; yet I 'm resolved 
To drink it off in spite of consequence. 
Whisper him, oh, some angel ! what I 'm doing : 
By sympathy of soul let him too tremble 
Tu hear my wondrous faith, my wondrous love, 
*' Whose spirit not content with an ovation 
«■* Of ling'ring fate, with triumph thus resolv'd, 
*' Thus in the rapid chariot of the soul, 
** To mount and dare as never woman dar'd. [Drinks, 
«* 'Tis done — haste, Delia, hasle — come, bring thy 

*' And sing my waftage to immortal joys. 
*' Methinks I can't but smile at my own. bravery : 
*' Thus from my lowest fortune rais'd to empire, 
** Crown'd and adorn'd, Worshrpp'dby half the earth, 
*• While a young monarch dies for my embraces, 
•* Yet now to wave the glories of the world"— p- 
Oh, my Varanes I tho' my birth 's unequal, 
Ivly virtue sure has richly recoinpens'd, 
Ajid quite outgone example I 


" Ah, ZTUel hlcody fair I 

*' Wh^t canst ihou nom do mere? 




Alas ! */ is all too late 
Philander to restore! 
Why should the heavenly powers persuade 
Poor mortals to believe 
That they guard us here 
And reward us there. 
Yet all our joys deceive ? 

Her poignard then she took 
And held it in her hand. 
And with a dying look 
Cry^dy thus I fate command : 
Philander, ak^ my love ! I come 
To meet thy shade below : 
Ally I come I she cry'df 
With a wound so wide 
There needs no second blow. 

In purple waves her blood 
Ran streamzJig down thejloor, 
JJnmev d she saw thejlood. 
And bless' d her dying hour ,* 
Philander I ah Philander ! stilt 
The bleeding Phillis cry^d \ 
She wept a while 
And she forced a smiley 
Then closed her eyes and dyW* 

Enter Pulche'ria. 

P-ukh. How fares my dear Eudosia \ Ha ! th»u 


Or else the tapers che-it tp.y s-uhr, like one 
That's h'ter tor thy tcmb rlian Caesar's bed: 
A fatal s rrosv dims th. shaded eves, 
And in deM'tc ^r ah thj urnamenrs 
Thou seen '-.t to. me the iihosr of Athenais. 

Athen. And what's the punishment, my dear Pul- 
che; ja ! 
What torments are allotted those sad spirits 
Who _:roan;n^ with t;ie burden of de-pair 
]So lono-er '- ii! endure the cares of life, 
But boloiy set themselves at liberty, 
«' Thro' the dark caves of death lo wander on, 
<* Like'vv^lder'd travellers without a gu^de, 
<' Eternal rovers in the gloomy maze, 
«' Where scarce the iwiligh-of an infant moon, 
<<■ By a glimmer check'ring thro' the trees, 
« Reflects to dismal view ti>e v%aikir)g ghosts, 
<* And never hope to leach me blessed fields ?'* 

Pulch No more o' that j Aarcui shall resolve thee: 
But see, he waits thee from the emperor ; 
Thy father too attends. 

£ri/er Lz^ON TINE, Atticus, &c, 
Leon. Come, Atliena-s- Ha 1 what now, in tears ? 
Oh, fail of hwnouri bu; no more, I charge thee, 
I ciiaTue ihee, as tho.> ever hop'st m> blessmg 
Or fear'st my curse, to banish trom thy soul 
All thoughts, if possible the memory. 
Of that -im grateful prince that has undone thee. 
Attend me to the temple on this instant 


To make the empVor thine, this aight to wed him, 
«' And lie within his arms." 

A then. Yes, sir, I '11 go . 

Let me but dry my eyes and I will go ; 

Eudosia, this unhappy bride, shall go : 

Thus like a vi6iim crown'd and doom'd to bleed, 

I 'II wait you to the altar, wed the cmp*ror, 

** And if he pleases lie within his arms." 

Leon, Thou art my child again. 

^tken. But do not, sir, imagine any charms 
Or threat'nings shall compel me 
Never to think of poor Vatranes mofe : 

No, my Varanes I no 

While I have breath I will remember thee j 

To thee alone I will my thoughts confine. 

And all my meditations shall be thine: 

*' The image of my woes my soul shall fill, 

*< Fate and my end, and thy remembrance still. 

As in some popular shade the nightingale 

<♦ With piercing moans does her lost young bewail, 

•' Which the rough hind observing as they lay 

*' Warm in their downy nest had stol'n away ; 

*' But she in mournful sounds does still complain, 

«' Sirigs all the night, fho* all her songs are vain, 

** And still renews her miserable strain." 

Yes, my Varanes I till my death comes on 

Shall sad Eudosia thy dear loss bemoan. {^ExeunL 

Enur Varanes. 
Far. *TJs night, dead night, snd vreary nature lies 


So fast as if she never were to rise ; 

No breath of wind now whispers thro' the trees, 

No noise at land nor murmur in the seas ; 

*' Lean wolves forget to howl at night's pale noon, 

** No wakeful dogs bark at the silent moon, 

" Nor bay the ghosts that glide with horror by 

** To view the caverns where their bodies lie ; 

** The ravens perch and no presages give, 

*' Nor to the windows of the dying cleave ; 

** The owls forget to scream ; no midnight sound 

** Calls drowsy Echo from the hollow ground j 

** In vaults the walking fires extinguish'd lie, 

** The stars, heaven's sentry, wink, and seem to die;" 

Such universal silence spreads below. 

Thro' the vast shades where I am doom'd to go, 

Nor shall I need a violence to wound, 

The storm is here that drives me on the ground 5 

Sure means to make the soul and body part, 

A burning fever and a broken heart. 

What, hoa, Aranrhes 1 

Enter Aranthes. 

I sent thee to th* apartment of Athenais ■' 

« I sent thee," did I not, " to be admitted i'** 

Jlran. You did, my lord ; but oh I 
I fear to give you an account. 

Mar. Alas, 
Aranthes ! I am got on t'other side 
Of this bad world, and now am past all fear. 
Oh, ye avenging gods ! is the^e a plague 

9^ TllEODOSIUS. /< a f , 

Among your hoarded bolts and heaps of vengeaticc 

Beyond the mighty loss of Aihenais? 

*Tis contradi6^on — Speak then, speak Aranthes, 

For all misfortune, if compar'd with that. 

Will make Varanes smile — -^ 

Aran. My lord, the Empress 
Crown'd and adorn'd with thp imperial robes. 
At this dead time of night, with silent pomp. 
As they design'd from all to keep it secret, 
But thiefly sure from you; I say, the empress 
Is now condiK^ted by the general, 
Atticus, and her father, to the temple, 
There to espouse the Emperor Thcodosius. 
/^ar. Say'stthou? Is't certain? Hal 
Aran, Most certain, sir. I saw them in processioa. 
Var, Give me thy sword. Malicious Fate I Oh 
Fortune 1 
Oh giddy Chance I Oh turn of love and greatness l 
Marry'd— she has kept her promise now indeed; 
And oh ! her pointed fame and nice revenge 
Have reach'd their end. No, my Aranthes, no ; 
1 will hot stay the lazy execution 
Of a slow fever. Give me thy hand, and swear 
By all the love and duly that thou ow'st me, 
T* observe the last commands that I shall give thee: 
Stir not against my purpose, as thou fear'st 
My anger and disdain j nor dare t* oppose me 
With troublesome unnecessary formal reasons, 
For what my thought has doom'd my hand shall seal. 
1 cJiarge tliee lioJd it stedfast to my heart. 

Fi3f 'a as the fate that throws me on the point. 
Tho' 1 have liv'da Persian, 1 will fall 
As fair, as fearless, and as full resolv'd, 
As any Greek or Roman of them all. 

Aran, What you command is terrible, but sacred j 
A;\d to atone for this too cruel duty, 
My lord, V U follow you 

Var. I charge thee not ; 
But when I am dead, take the attending slaves, 
And bear me with my blood distilling down 
Straight to the temple : lay me, oh, Aranthes ! 
'L^^f my 5old corse at Athenais' feet. 
And say, oh why 1 why do my eyes run o'er ? 
Say with my latest gasp 1 groan'd for pardon. 
Just here, my friend ; hold fast, and fix the sword ; 
I feel the art'ry where the lifeblood lies; 
It beaves agains the point— Now, oh ye gods ! 
If for the greatly wretched you have room 
Prepare my place ; for dauntless lo I come : 
The force of love thus makes the mortal wound, 
And Athenais sends me to the ground. [Kills Iiimself, 


•The outward Part of the Ternple. Enter Pulcheria 
Qnd-]\SLIK at one DcoTy Maxcian and Lucius at 
*^PukL Look, Julia, see the pensive Marcian comes? 

« 'Tis to my wish ; I must no long,er lose him, 


*' Lest he should leave the court indeed. Hp looks 
<* As if some mighty secret work'd within him 
" And labour'd for a vent — Inspire me, woman! 
<' That what my soul desires above the world 
«< May seem impos'd and forc'd on ray affetStions. 

" Luc. I say she loves you, and she stays to hear it 
** From your own mouth— Now, in the name 
<* Of all the gods, at once, my lord, why are you silent ? 
*' Take heed, sir, mark your opportunity, 
<' For if the woman lays it, in your way 
«* And you o'ersee it she is lost for ever. 

<' Mar. Madam, I come to take my eternal leave ; 
<< Your doom has banish'd me, and I obey. 
*' The court aiid I shake hands, and now we part, 
« Never to see each other more j the court 
*' Where I was born and bred a gentleman, 
*' No more, till your illustrious bounty ryis'd me, 
*' And drew the earthborn vapour to the clouds: 
*« But as the gods ordain'd it I have lost, 
*' I know not how, thro' ignorance, your grace; 
«' And now the exhalation of my glory 
*' Is quite consum'd and vanish'd into air. 

<* Pukh. Proceed, sir. 

" Mar. Yet let those gods that doom'd me to dis- 
please you 

<' Be witnesses how much I honour you -— 

<' Thus worshipping, I swear by your bright self, 
*< I leave this infamous court witli more content 
«' Than fools and flatt'rers seek it ; but, oh Heaven I 
*< I cannot go if still your hate pursues mei 

A5i r. THEODOSIUS, 161 

** Yes, I declare it is impo-s'.ble 

«' To go to banishment without your pardon. 

*' Puic/i. You have it, Marcian : is there ought beside 
*' That you would speak, fori am free to hear. 

*' Mar. Since 1 shall never see you n.ore, what hinders 
'* But my last words should here protest the truth: 
** Know then, imperial princess, matchless woman 1 
** Since first you cast your eyes upon my meanness, 
** Ev'n, till you rais'd me to my envi'd height, 
*' I have in secret lov'd you — ' 

«' Pulck. Is this Marcian 1 

'* Mar. You frown, but I am still prepar'd for all: 
** I say I lov'd you, and I love you still, 
*< More than my life, and equal to my glory, 
** Merhinks the warring spirit that inspires 
** This frame, the very genius of old Rome, 
** That makes me talk without the fear of death, 
** And drives my daring soul to a6ls of honour, 
*' Flames in your eyes; our thoughts too are akin 
** Ambitious, fierce, and burn alike for glory. 
** Now, by the gods, I lov'd you in your fury 
** In all the thunder that quite riv'd my hopes; 
*' I lov'd you most ev'n when you did destroy me. 
** Madam, 1 've spoke my heart, and could say more, 
*' But that I see it grieves you ; your high blood 
*' Frets ar the arrogance and saucy pride 
** Of this bold vagabond — May the gods forgive m.e— 
" Farewell — a worthier general may succeed me, 
** But none more faithful to the emperor's interest 
*' Than him you 're pleas'd to call the traitor Marcian, 


*^ Pulck. Come backj you've subtily play'd your 
part indeed ; 
*.< For first, the emperor, whom you lately school'd, 
•* Restores you your commission; next commands you, 
<* As you 're a subje6l, not to leave the court: 
** Next, but, oh Heaven! wliich way shall I express 
«* His cruel pleasure I he that is so mild 
•* In all things else, yet obstinate in this, 
** Spire of my tears, my birth, and my disdain, 
** Commands me, as 1 dread his high displeasure, 
<* Oh, Marcian I to receive you as my husband. 

*' Mar, Ha, Lucius! what does my fate intend ? 

** Luc. Pursue her, sir; 'tis as I said: she yields, 
<» And rages that you follow her no faster. 

«< Pulch. Is then, at last, my great autliority 
<* And my intrusted power declin'd to this \ 
** Yet, oh my fate I what way can I ayoid if ? 
<• He charg'd me straight to wait him to the temple, 
** And there resolve, oh, Marcian I on this marriage 
«* Now, gen'rous soldier, as yqu 're truly nqble, 
** Oh, help me forth, lost iri this labyrinth ; 
<* Help me to loose this niore than Gordian knot, 
*' And make me and yourself for ever h^ppy. 

<* Mar. Madam, I 'H speak as brieSy as I can, 
<* And as a soldier ought : the only way 
** To help this knot is yet to tie it faster. 
<' Since then the emperor has resolv'd you mine, 
«' For which I will forever thank the gods, 
*' And runke this holiday throughout my life, 
<< i take him a< his word, and claim his promise; 

jiaV, THEODO-SIUS. 105 

** The empire of the world shall not redeem ypir. 

** Nay, w eep not, madam ; tho* my Outside's rough, 

** Yet by those eyes your soldier has a heart 

*' Compassionate and tender as a virgin's ; 

** Ev'n now it bl-eeds to see those foiling sorrows; 

*' Perhaps this grief may move the 6mperor 

*' To a repentance : come then to the trial, 

** For bfmy arms, my life, and dearer honour, 

" If you go back when given- me by his hand^ 

*' In distant wars my fate I will deplore, 

*^ And Marcian's name shall ne'er be heard of more.'* 

SCENE ir. 

The Temple. Theodosius, Athenais — Atticus 
joining their kands — Makcian, Pi/lcheria, Lu- 
cius, Julia, Delia, &c. Leontine. 
Attic. The more than Gordinn knot is ty^dy 

Which Death's strong arm shall ne'er diiide. 
For when to bliss ye wafted arcy 
Tour spirits shall be wedded there : 
Waters are lost and fires will die. 
But love alone can fate defy. 

Enter Arakthes with the body (/VaraneS. 
Aran. Where is the empress ? where shall I find 
Eudosia ? . 

By fate I'm sent to tell that cruel beauty 
She has robb'd the world of fame : her eyes have girga • 
A blast to the big blossom of the war ;' 
. Kij 


Behold him there nipp'd in his fiow'ry morn, 

Conipell'd to break his promise of a day, 

A day that conquest would have made her boast: 

Behold her laurel wither'd to the root, 

Canker'd and kill'd by Athenais' scorn. 

yhhen. Dead, dead, Varanes I 

Theo. *' Oh, ye eternal powers 
*' That guide the world! why do you shock our reason 
<' With a6ls like these, that lay our thoughts in dust ? 
" Forgive me. Heaven, this start, or elevate 
** Imagination more, and make it nothing." 
Alas, alas, Varanes 1 But speak, Aranthes, 
The manner of his fate. " Groans choke my words— 
** Biit speak, and we will answer thee with tears." 

ylran. His fever would, no doubt, by this have done 
Wliat some few minutes past his sword perform'd. 
He heard from me your progress to the temple, 
How you design'd at midnight to deceive him 
By a clandestine marriage : but my lord. 
Had you beheld his racks at my relativ)n, 
Or had you empress seen him n those torments, 
Wlien from his dying eyes swol'n to the brim 
The big round drops roU'd down his manly face, 
When from his hoilow'd breast a murm'ring crowd 
Of groans rush'd fortli, and echo'd all is well i 
Then had you seen him, oh ye cruel gods! 
Rush on the sword I held against his breast, 

And dye it to the hilt with these last words 

Bear me to Athenais — 

Athtn. Give me way my lord ; 
I have most stri61:ly kept my promise with you : 

ASl^, THEODOSius. ie5- 

1 am vour bride, and you can ask no more : 
Or ifyoLi did 1 'm past the power to give- 
But here, oh here ! on his cold bluody breast 
Thus let me breathe my last. 

Thes. Oh, empress 1 what, what can this transport 
mean r 
Are these our nuptials, these my promis'd joys ? 
Athen. Forgive me, sir, this last respect I pay 
These sad remains— and oh, thou mijj;hty spirit 1 
If yet thou art not mingled witii the stars, 
Look down and hear the wretched Athenais, 
When thou shalt know before I gave consent 
To this indecent marriage, I had taken 
Into my veins a cold and deadly draught, 
«' Which soon would render me, alas ! unfit 
*' For the warm joys of an imperial lover, 
«< And make me ever thine, yet keep my word 
** With Ti-ieodosius," wilt ihou not forgive me ? 

Theo. Poison'd, to free thee from the Emperor I 
Oh, Athenais! thou has done a deed 
That tears my, heart I What have I done against thee 
" That ihou should'sr brand me thus with infamy 
" And everlasring shame? thou might'st have made 
*' Thy choice witiiout ths cruel aft ot death: 
" I left thee to thy will, and in requital 
*' Thou ha^t murder'd allmy fame.'* 

Aihcn Oa, pardon nie I 
I lay my dying body at your feet. 
And beg, my lord, with mv last sighs intreat you, 
T' impute the fault, if 't is a fault, to love, 


And the ingratitude of Aihcnais, 
To her too cruel stars. Remember, too, 
I begg'd you would not ^et me see the prince, 
Presaging what has happen'd; yet my word 
As lo our nuptials was inviolable. 

Theo. Hal she is going I— « see her languishing eyes 
** Draw in their beams!" the sleep of death is on her. 
^tken. '' Farewell, my lord." Alas, alas, Varanesl 
T' embrace thee now is riot immodesty, 
Or if it were, I think my bleeding heart 
Would mnke me criminal in death to clasp thee, 
*' Break all the tender niceties of honour 
*' To fold thee thus, and warm thee into life, 
** For oh, what man like him couM woman move I" J 
Oh, prince belov'd! oh, spirit most divine I 
Thus by my death I give thee all my love, 

And seal my soul and body ever thine \_DUs, \ 

7^tf<j. Oh, Mar clan! oh, Pulcherial did not the Power l 
Whom we adore plant all his thunderbolts 
Against self-murd'rcrs, I would perish too; 
But as I am I swear to leave the empire. 
To thee, my sister, I bequeath the world, 
And yet a gift more grear, the gallant Marcian : 
On then, my friend, now shew thy Roman spirit! 
As to her sex fair Athenais was 
Be thou of thine a pattern of true honour: 
Thus we 'II atone for all the present crimes, 
That yet it may be said in aftertimes. 
No age with such examples could compare, 
So greaf, soj^ood, so virtuous, and so fair. [Exewt. 


iHRlCE happy they that ntvcr wrott he/ore \ 

How pleased and bold they quit phe safer shore! 

Like some new captain of the city bands.. 

That with big looks in Finsbury contmandsy 

Swell' d with huge ale he crieSy Beaty beat the drum\ 

Pox o' the French king! Uds-bud ! let him comti 

Give me ten thousand red -coats and alloo! 

WeHlfrk his Crequi and his Conde too. 

Thus the young scribblers mankind's sense disdain^ 

For ignorance is sure to make *em vain\ 

But far from vanity or dangerous pride 

Our cautious Poet courts you to his side ; 

For why should you be scorn'' dy to whom are due 

All the good days that ever authors knew? 

If ever gay y Uisyou that make* em fine \ 

The pit and boxes make the poet dine. 

And he scarce drinks but of the critic's wine. 

Old writers should not for vain- glory strive. 

But like old mistresses think how to thrive ; 

Be fond of cv' ry thing their keepers say^ 

At least till they can live without a play) 

J.ike one who knows the trade and has been bit. 

She dotes and fawns upon her wealthy city 

And swears she loves him merely for his wit* 



Another^ more untaught than a Walloon.^ 

Antic and vgljy like an old baboon. 

She swears if an accomplish'' d beau-gar ^on ; 

Turns with all winds, and sails with all desires \ 

All hearts in city, town, and court, shejires, 

Tbung callow lords, lean knights, and driv'ling squires. 

She- in resistless fiatC ry Jinds her ends. 

Gives thanks for fools, and makes ye all her friends. 

So should wise poets sooth an aukwardagey 

For they are prostitutes upon the stage. 

To stand on points were foolish and ill-bred 

As for a lady to be nice in bed ; 

Your wills alone must their performance measure^ 

And you may turn ""em ev'ry way for pleasure. 

Deacidified using the Bookkeeper process 
Neutralizing agent: Magnesium Oxide 
Treatment Date: Nov. 2005 

(' PreservatlonTechnologies 


1 1 1 Thomson Park Dnve 
Cranberry Township, PA 16066